


in the space between us, an undefined yet somehow cosmic force

by secretlyHipster



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, DJ Otabek Altin, Enemies to Friends, Friends to Enemies, Homophobic Language, M/M, Oops, Past Underage Sex, Pride Parades, Recreational Drug Use, Yuri Plisetsky Needs a Hug, and some good ol' fashioned grassroots politics, but it won't be too explicit and will be plot-oriented, it's just weed like once, lots of sexuality stuff, pansexuality, there's also a christian cult, this is probably a little preachy about gender/sexuality, this whole story is about owning your sexuality and acceptance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretlyHipster/pseuds/secretlyHipster
Summary: “I don’t want to hear things like 'you care about me, like a lot' or whatever right now, Bek. That shit is so sappy. And it makes me want to throw up. Do you want me to throw up on you?”“I don’t, no.”“You don’t /know/?”“No, I don’t want you to throw up on me. Jesus, Yuri, can we talk about this at the table or something?”“Absolutely not. I want to be close to you.”Otabek's patience was an unrivaled entity.Or:Yuri Plisetsky's precarious navigation of his own lurking demons, falling dick first into a grassroots queer rights movement and a curiously unlabeled yet decidedly physical relationship with one annoyingly supportive Otabek Altin.And:This work is complete and in the final stages of editing, so updates will be consistent.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 34
Kudos: 39





	1. kill the director

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If this is a rom-com_   
>  _kill the director, please._
> 
> [Kill the Director](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVssCPuEzbM) / The Wombats
> 
> (This fic has a Spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xJpYx4iEoZ5lrrop5ZOxF?si=f7iC5_oPS46tgE9EzzejBA).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it in the summary, but FYI: This is a completed work. It's about 50,000 words, which is a lot for something that was supposed to be a fucking oneshot about Yuri getting rejected because he's underage and all the Yuri-esque feelings that follow. Anyway, two months later and we got us a whole-ass, gay-ass, fluff-and-angst-ass novella just in time for pride month. I put way too much time into this to abandon it now, folx, so expect hella stable updates at varying increments. Number of chapters might change due to formatting because I'm -a n a l-.
> 
> As a nod to the musical elements of the show, each chapter will have a theme song and a few lyrics added to the beginning to set the mood. This is gonna be a curated experience, people.
> 
> Fair warning: there's some nondescript solo sexual content at the end of this chapter as well as the introduction of some homophobic language that continues later in the story.

“This letter of reference. It’s from your dance teacher?”

The cat café’s massive, muscled owner sat before him, holding a clipboard and a pen, though he hadn’t written a single thing down. Yuri wondered about the significance of it. He’d been there, in the lobby with high ceilings and a healthy amount of natural light, for at least twenty minutes. Perhaps the clipboard was for show, a power move to remind him that one mark of the pen could mean he was done for. Yuri _hated_ feeling threatened—that was a surefire way to get on his shit list—but he needed the job.

Bad.

“Ballet instructor,” Yuri corrected. It wasn’t as polite as he’d meant to sound. “I’ve competed internationally since age nine. It’s hard work—not for lazy or weak people.” The next words came begrudgingly. Complimenting anyone, especially Victor, wasn’t something he tended to do aloud. “My instructor is a world-renowned competitor, too.”

“Right, and are you currently participating in these competitions?” The café manager raised an eyebrow. His reading glasses caught the light like a switch blade. “I need someone who can commit time to this place. Coffee isn’t something you learn overnight.”

“I’m not competing this season,” Yuri assured him, face scrunched into a sour expression. He wanted to spit the words, grind them into the tile like a spent cigarette. “My only commitment is class in the afternoons on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll work every day, even weekends.”

 _Please_ , he added in his head. He would never let the sentiment pass his lips; he was fully aware of the old adage about beggars and choosers. Like most advice from his elders, Yuri ignored it. He deliberately chose to apply at the cat café because he needed a win. He needed the comfort of being surrounded by his favorite animal and the smell of something fresh and roasting, in a bright atmosphere where people were working hard at their futures. The people at the tables around them tapped quietly at their computers, highlighted things in textbooks. Spoke in whispered conversations over a shared notebook. The sun cast a great deal of natural light over the entire lobby; it was a dose of vitamin D his mental heath was desperate for.

Looking through his cursedly blonde lashes, Yuri’s eyes silently pleaded with the manager (crap, what was his name?) as he tapped his pen to the unused clipboard and offered a smile.

“I think I’m going to give your reference a call and get back to you. You seem like the ideal candidate, especially since you’re in the market for a new hobby,” he said. His thinning hair was in a long ponytail that curled at the ends. It slid off his shoulder when he shifted in his seat, relaxing now that his decision was seemingly made. “Coffee can be fun, but it’s also a highly revered, marketable trade and we have some nice talent here who can help you succeed.”

Yuri could hardly hold back an unceremonious snort. Ballet? A hobby? The guy knew nothing of the higher arts, clearly, despite what he said. Determined to be on his best behavior, he pieced together the line he’d rehearsed a million times with Katsuki: “Thank you for the opportunity. I’m looking forward to growing my career with Kimchi Café.”

Yuri sounded like a fraud. He was sure his face was screwed into an awkward smile that showed too much of his canines.

“Love to hear it, Mr. Plisetsky! Oh—and I mentioned my current talent,” the manager (Celestino; that was his name!) said, tapping a manicured finger to his handsome cleft chin. His lips split into a charming grin. “I dropped your name to the supervisor who worked last night and he said he knows you. Told me it’d be a mistake not to hire you; that you have passion.”

Yuri couldn’t stop his eyebrows from twitching upward in shock. The city was big and he didn’t know very many people. It was probably one of his grandfather’s friends taking pity on him, like he fucking needed any of that. Either that, or it was a crazed ballet fan of his. Both situations pissed him off just the same. Unchecked and with a little anger seeping through his teeth, he said, “I do have passion, a truckload.” Truckload. Yes, that was the word he wanted to use. “I also have to get to class. Can I expect to hear from you by tomorrow night?”

Celestino nodded, a look of (was that…? It couldn’t possibly be) amusement on his face and offered his word in the form of a firm, uncomfortably sweaty handshake.

_xyz_

_I’m omw over_.

The text felt too intimate, especially coming from an unsaved number in his phone. Yuri rarely took the time to create contacts, much preferring to keep people in their place by occasionally asking _“who is this again?”_ in the middle of a conversation. He didn’t have to ask with that particular number; a short scroll up reminded Yuri of why he was ignoring it.

Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov was probably his least favorite person. Well, aside from everyone else from the Nikiforov’s dance studio. None of them had left him alone since he stopped showing up for class every day. Community, they said—or something equally as cringey.

They could _all_ be his least favorite, right?

Either way, the other Yuuri was the worst of them because of his stupid brown eyes, like a hollow-brained dog desperate to lick away its owner’s tears. Well, guess what? That just left him sad _and_ covered in saliva. Worse off, if you asked Yuri. He wanted to be _alone_. He wanted to grieve in peace, on his own, lying in his grandfather’s cold, unmade bed just to get a whiff of his scent. Oak and the musk of his aftershave; it faded with each passing day.

_Pfft. Who’s the dog now?_

Yuri ignored his phone ringing; it was probably Katsuki, being a desperate fool. A glutton for embarrassment. He’d show up outside Yuri’s door and get rejected, go home crying into Victor’s goddamn, stupid-muscular-for-a-dancer chest and maybe he’d finally throw himself off a balcony.

Yuri felt a little guilty about that last thought.

He decided to pick up his phone after the familiar chime ended, either from guilt or some lingering, misdirected sense of duty. He could at least text Katsuki that he wasn’t going to partake in the studio’s Friday clubbing night (now or _ever_ _again_ ) but took in a sharp breath when his eyes finally adjusted to the bright screen; the blue light filter could only do so much. The number from the missed call and voicemail was one he _had_ saved: Celestino Cialdini, the owner of the Kimchi Café.

He opened the voicemail as soon as he got the notification, tapping the button to switch to speakerphone twice on accident, then one more time to catch the message just in time. His cat rubbed her face against the back of Yuri’s hand, jostling the phone while he leaned eagerly into the sound. He dropped it on his face and shooed Potya to his feet.

_“Yuri! Sorry to call you so late, but I wanted to get back to you today—like I promised. I talked to Mr. Nikiforov. He had nothing but kind words about you, so the job’s yours if you still want it. I’ll text you some shifts starting next week. You said you’re unavailable Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, right? Oh, uh, make sure you get a haircut or tie it up on your first day. Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself now. Text me if you still want the job, then we’ll talk training and dress code. Thanks, see ya.”_

“Cut my hair?” Yuri repeated from the rambling mess of a voicemail, eyebrows screwed together in disgust. He ran a waterfall of blonde hair between all his fingers; the ends reached past his armpits in length. He felt like it was a rude thing to comment on, especially since it was coming from a man whose hair was just as long. Yuri hadn’t cut his hair since his grandfather got sick, definitely not since he…

Yuri felt a jolt in his stomach. His hands clenched on his phone, in his hair. He pulled, feeling the pain in his follicles but not registering it as such.

He hadn’t cut his hair or done much preening at all since his grandfather died, that freezing day in late December, when the snow was melting outside the hospital room where he’d spent most of the fall and all of winter. In the weeks following, the dead leaves beneath were revealed, reduced to sludge and smelling of rot. He remembered walking past them, choosing not to feel and failing miserably. The emotions had welled into tears and a clenched jaw; he’d kicked the soggy leaves into the gutter.

Yuri’s doorbell sounded. He stirred from his place on his grandfather’s bed; he hadn’t noticed that he was starting to tear up. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist and crawled to his feet.

A look into the peephole revealed a distorted Yuuri Katsuki, as expected. He was wearing a navy blue peacoat that belonged to Victor and a plaid scarf wrapped up over the bottom half of his face. Yuri cracked the door open, leaving the chain on as a silent _fuck you_ _and fuck off_.

“I said I’m not hanging out with you morons anymore. I texted you a billion times. You do know how to read, don’t you?”

Katsuki laughed—laughed!—at the weak attempt to scare him away. “You’re more colorful with your insults when you’re in better spirits.” His heavily accented English was muffled by the layers, by the dense space between them.

Yuri scowled; a wet cat. The cold seeping in from the cracked door sent a shiver through his lithe body. “I’ll show you colorful if you don’t get lost.”

He huffed dramatically and tried to close the door, but Katsuki stuck his right loafer in the gap and prevented it.

“Oh, I have an idea!” Katsuki said, pretending to be spontaneous. Both men knew what his plans entailed; he’d detailed them in a text Yuri didn’t reply to, in a group chat he had muted. “Show me colorful with your outfit. It’s 80s night at The Piano Room. Come along? I’ll pay for the Uber. It’s cold as balls.”

“Not a chance,” Yuri said, though he’d decided to push the door closed enough to take off the chain, nudging Katsuki’s foot out of the way with one bare toe. He was leaning on the threshold, still dressed in his sweatpants and stained hoodie with some obscure alternative band logo. He crossed his arms against the angry weather. “This is my outfit for tonight.”

“Come on, you _love_ excuses to show off your fashion sense.”

“You just want me there to make you guys look good,” Yuri spat. The words were hostile; he was being mean, had gone a little too far past his usual unpleasantries. His features softened at the realization. He sighed. “I’ve ignored everyone’s calls and texts. I sent back food and flower deliveries. Why are you guys still bothering me after two months? I quit ballet.” He hesitated, took a drag from the words before he dropped them to the old carpet at his feet. “Probably for good.”

A contemplative silence; the wind kissed Yuri’s skin where it was bare and Potya had come to curiously peek her head between his ankles. She immediately shied away from the cold, slunk away to curl up somewhere more forgiving.

“Everyone who goes to Victor’s studio has known you since you were a little kid. Believe it or not, your people skills and your filter were even worse back then,” Katsuki softly reasoned, shoving his gloved hands in his pockets. He was cold, out on the stoop. His glasses were fogged, nose probably pink under its patterned layers. He stuck Yuri with those dumbly fond dog eyes. “There’s not much you could do to scare us away. We want to see you get back on your feet, whether it’s in the studio or outside of it.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes, let the words sink in. He felt his resolve starting to disintegrate; maybe it was rotted sludge meant to be kicked into the sewers. He was quieter, more defenseless than he meant to be when he spoke. “What if I have homework to do tonight?”

“It’s Friday, so I doubt it.”

“I know you’re old as fart jokes, but I’m sure you remember that professors don’t discriminate based on the day of the week.”

“Fart jokes,” Katsuki muttered, humorless. Maybe he’d been right about Yuri’s lame insult game as of late. “Whatever. 80s night _does_ discriminate. First Friday of the month only. Come on.” For drama, even though he constantly claimed not to be one of _those gays_ (whatever the hell that meant), he threw his hands out and repeated, “Come _on_. We’re losing moonlight.”

Yuri _did_ have a really cool The Cars t-shirt he’d just scored at a thrift store and chaotically cut into a wide-necked crop top. When else would he get a chance to wear it out right in the asscrack of winter and spring?

“There’s a fine line between trying to help someone out of a slump and annoying the hell out of them.” Yuri’s words were colder than the melting snow, but he swung the door open and stepped aside to allow Katsuki access to his home.

_But maybe you haven’t crossed it just yet._

If he ever thought something that sappy toward Katsuki again, Yuri would definitely hurl.

_xyz_

Yuri applied eyeliner and changed clothes in ten swift, practiced minutes. Before he knew it, he was walking on the sidewalk with a herd of danseurs, dressed in neon to let everyone know they were poisonous. A pack of predators in a concrete jungle, they stalked through crosswalks even when the walking man wasn’t green.

When the tail end of their group narrowly missed being steamrolled by a biker, Christophe Giacometti purred: “You get the best _meat_ when there’s a hint of danger to the hunt.”

He blew a kiss to Katsuki just to see him blush, and that was all it took for Yuri to tune out the bulk of the conversation—until he heard his name.

“Congrats on your new job, Yurio,” Victor called behind him as they passed a brick apartment building with a Duane Reade on the bottom floor. The walk from where the Uber had dropped them off was short, but the run of buildings felt endless. Victor turned to flash Yuri one of his oceanic eyes over a broad shoulder, and it was predictably bright with mischief. “I’m assuming you got it, anyway, since I didn’t mention your hotheaded yelling fits or those times when you so stubbornly refuse to listen to your instructors.”

Yuri could hear the ever-present smile on his stupidly handsome face. His bone structure was exactly like a Renaissance sculpture. Disgusting. “You know, I told him in my interview that you’re _world renowned_. I probably should have said you _were_ world renowned. You know, before you got married. And fat.”

He added the last insult as an afterthought, an attempted slice from a terribly dull knife. Victor wasn’t fat, but he was married. He and Yuuri had met at the studio when they were both still students. That was before Victor bought it from the previous owner. Katsuki, who was impossibly hard to coax into opening up, was surprisingly quick to fall for Victor’s patient charm. A million perfect moments later, and there they were, walking with one arm around each other on the way to a gay bar to dance with other men.

Ah, modern romance.

If Yuri was sure of anything, it was that he’d never be married. He’d never allow someone to convince him to shed his inhibitions and freefall with them, even if they were impossibly kind like Katsuki or akin to a hero from a spoken word epic like Victor.

Yuri stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket and reverted to staring at his feet and ignoring the conversation around him.

_xyz_

The Piano Room was traditionally just a bar, but a long-concealed prohibition room had been discovered in the basement around five years previous. The owners capitalized on it, as one does, and decided to operate as a night club on the weekends.

More recently, there was a group of people standing outside the bar’s entrance on street level, chanting things that Yuri pretended not to hear. He hadn’t been out with his dance mates in a while, and the group of protestors had grown a lot bigger since the last time he’d seen them. It was troubling to anyone else—but Yuri could handle himself.

As he got closer, their chants became clearer: _“Sodomy’s a sin! Church you should attend! Christ you should defend!”_

“Don’t you have women’s clinic patients to harass in the morning? It’s late. Scram,” spat Yuri as he stopped to get ID’d and marked with a black ‘X’ to signify he was underage. He didn’t see any reason to be polite to people who were not polite to him. The dancers walking behind him, JJ, Christophe and Phichit seemed to ignore them for the most part, other than Chris sending a wink in the direction of one of the young men behind enemy lines.

Chris called out to the protestor in his most porn star-esque tone, “If you ever change your mind, you _come inside_ here and find me, kay?”

The crowd inside was a different kind of noisy. The kind of noisy Yuri hadn’t realized he missed. The bass hummed under his feet from the club downstairs. The floorboards were sticky with spilled alcohol. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat. The lighting was low, a telltale sign of mischief to be made. Two men were making out at the bar counter, hands entwined in one another’s hair, traveling lower.

Okay, he didn’t miss _that_ part. That was just gross.

He was on the brink of letting the sight sour his mood when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Phichit, and he was smiling the way he did before he said something that made Yuri nearly lose his lunch.

“Yurio! Thanks for letting us swoop you up tonight. I’ve missed hangin’ with you,” he said. His phone was out, which was perfectly on brand. He was probably taking a photo for his Instagram story. Yuri held up his open palm to block his face from view, like he typically did when he was asked to interview at dance competitions.

“Don’t be vile,” Yuri scowled, peeking through his fingers. Once he saw the camera flash, he used his outstretched hand to tie his hair into a scrunchie and pull at random strands to create volume in the back. “I came because I want to dance with hot guys and sweat, not bond with you losers.”

Phichit blinked in response. Yuri had never been quite so close to him, so maybe he should have filtered himself more. He tried to make up for it, moving a step closer to allow his voice to lower. “Why do you let them drag you to this place anyway? You know it’s, like, a gay bar, right? You’re bound to get hit on.”

Phichit was Katsuki’s straight best friend, or so he claimed. Yuri may or may not have eyeballed the older man’s attractively slim, built frame and blushed, realizing the implications of his words. He was objectively a stunning person, both physically and mentally, not that Yuri would ever want to date him.

If he noticed Yuri’s wandering eye, Phichit didn’t react to it. He grinned, tilting his head to the side. The string lights around the crown molding twinkled in his brown eyes. “Fun doesn’t have a sexuality. If there’s 80s music and dancing, I’m there.” He glanced to either side of them and leaned in. “Hey, want me to sneak you a drink?”

Yuri shook his head and made a mental note to check with him later, see if the much sweeter man needed any persistent admirers taken care of. He could use a good bar fight to loosen up some of the anger he’d accumulated since losing ballet as an outlet.

As they neared the club entrance, Yuri’s body electrified with the sound of the music. He liked having to walk down a spiral staircase in a coat closet to get inside, even though the amount of people in front of and behind him made it feel precarious. (Perhaps the danger was a high all on its own.) The door had been removed from the closet, leaving only the worn trim work and time-bronzed hinges behind.

Descending into the club felt gothic and grand. He let his hand trail the railing, relishing the cool, waxed wood. The red piano that gave the club its name was always the first sight upon entering the basement. It was situated, unused and with the cover over the keys, between two stripper poles on a platform at the head of the room, right in front of the emergency exit which had to be added as an afterthought, especially with the current events in the city.

Protestors had been swarming the place for almost a year; the owners and attendees were growing nervous about a grotesque display leaking into the staple addition to the multicultural city’s queer community. No one thought of that until the day after, though, how vulnerable they were the night before. Shepherded together, drugged, sweating and tenderized by the bass-heavy rhythm. Ripe for slaughter.

Yuri wouldn’t consider that sort of thing until well after the next morning, maybe months or years later when he was older, wiser, somehow even more jaded. In that moment, he was focused on his body’s reaction to the music. A sped-up [Blondie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNeCMEESdn0) song played over the speakers. It was remixed a little, but not enough to ruin the classic feel. Yuri remembered that 80’s night used to be his second favorite recurring theme night at The Piano Room. His first favorite was emo night, when his true fashion sense could be displayed in its prime and he could shamelessly dance to the 2005-era punk pop classics he usually pretended not to like.

Since time passed only in measures and bars in clubs, Yuri wasn’t sure how long it took for him to find himself settled on the dance floor. He was sweating between two older men, much taller than him, both vying for his attention. He traced his hands sensually up his body and spun. He didn’t look anyone in the eyes, not for a second. He wasn’t interested in hooking up and especially not in making friends.

Dance was his escape from that sort of bullshit.

A [Madonna](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p-lDYPR2P8) song came on; one he’d danced to in his room countless times. He took the purple scrunchie out of his hair and let it fall to his shoulders. His sweat, a headband and the fact that he hadn’t washed it in almost a week kept his bangs out of his face. The hair tie fell to the floor, soon forgotten in a puddle of spilled liquid with a stomped lime wedge as garnish.

Yuri danced for a long time, only occasionally stopping to grab a sip of water and scan the room for his friends. As he held a plastic cup with lukewarm water in his fishnet-gloved hands, he noticed JJ and Chris had taken to the stripper poles, one on each side. They were mostly undressed, performing a routine that looked way too rehearsed. The other members of his party were more inconspicuous. Victor, nearby, flirted with the bartender to get a free drink. Phichit and Yuuri danced modestly while they observed their drunken friends on the poles, occasionally whispering something behind their hands and sharing a laugh.

How long had Yuri been in the fray? His phone read almost 1 A.M., so a while. It didn’t feel like long enough. The water was gone in a gulp, and he was ready to rejoin the party.

An arm snaking around his waist stopped him, and he turned, rearing a fist back for a punch he wouldn’t end up needing to land.

“I got you a shot,” Victor slurred into his ear, offering a rocks glass to him with his free hand. Yuri didn’t move to take it, instead twisting pointedly out of the older man’s grip.

“You know I don’t fuck with that swill,” He said, smashing the water cup in his hand and throwing it into the recycling bin behind him. He utilized his now-free hands to wipe his clothes, as if Victor’s touch had somehow dirtied him.

Victor nodded, smiled. His eyes were narrowed, dark and lustful, and he looked like sin. Katsuki wasn’t going to get a break once they left, if Victor even held out that long. Alcohol always made them both like rabbits; it was devastating. “I know. I was wondering if you wanted to this once, to celebrate your new job. Cheers to growing up.”

Yuri eyed the glass, then the second shot sitting on the counter Victor had purchased for himself. He didn’t drink before because he was underage, but now that his grandfather had passed and he already had an intense sadness sleeping inside him, he knew turning to alcohol was the absolute wrong choice. He’d watched both of his parents give in to their addictions. Their personalities chipped away like old paint with each sip, each inhale.

“As if you’d know anything about growing up,” Yuri spat; it was venom. “That shit tastes bad and I don’t want it.”

Yuri knew the excuse was hidden as well as a shallow grave. Of course Victor knew about his parents, being a close friend of his grandfather. His answer wouldn’t change; the alcohol, to him, felt like a weakness. Yuri didn’t choose the easy way out of _anything_.

“Hmm. Look up at who’s DJing and you might change your mind,” Victor said, though he’d already swallowed one shot and was moving in for the second. His mischievous grin curled around the glass rim, didn’t falter when the second dose of alcohol touched his lips.

Yuri’s brows sprung upward, surprised. “No _fucking_ way.” He looked up, and sure enough, his eyes met those of someone who should have meant nothing to him, so many years later. But suddenly he was fifteen again, on a couch and straddling Otabek’s lap, being held at arm’s length. Suddenly he was alone and crying in the bathroom of that long-over house party where no one could see him, feeling unwanted and rejected and ugly and stupid, so _stupid_ for thinking his feelings were anything but one-sided.

Of course—he wasn’t crying anymore. He hadn’t cried about it in a long time. He’d imagined the moment fate reunited him with his old dance mate many times, mostly late at night. Would Otabek Altin start a conversation with him if they passed on the street? Would he apologize for what he’d done? Explain himself? Maybe they would fight. Maybe he only liked women and Yuri had ripped apart his masculinity that night, leaving a ragged, pink scar on that caramel flesh. Maybe he’d get the satisfaction of punching the person who hurt him so deeply right in the mouth, feel his jaw pop out of place under his knuckles.

Fate had her wicked plans, it seemed, and Yuri felt absolutely blessed by them. He was in _his_ element; the dance floor. He was surrounded by music and _men_ —so many men.

“Otabek’s been watching you since we got here, Yuri.”

Oh? He suddenly had a lot more interest in the numerous sets of eyes that had been vying for him; he spotted two of them nearby, still focused on his muscled body. He swung his hips more than he needed to as he picked a partner at random and danced his way toward him, trying to imitate the drunken, sexual heat in Victor’s gaze.

Putting on a show—that was his career for years. He could do it for one more night.

_xyz_

Much to Yuri’s dismay, he did have homework that Friday night (which he was going to get points off of for turning in the next day, fuck you very much, Katsuki), and it was in the most useless class ever: psychology.

He had no idea why it was a prerequisite for the upper division courses of his athletic training program. He wasn’t even sure he’d stick with that major; he’d hurriedly switched it from dance one semester in after his grandfather passed. It was a desperate, clawing attempt to distance himself from his previous life before it swallowed him whole and spat up his bones.

More importantly, he needed a less demanding degree choice because he was in the position where getting a part-time job was not something offhanded his parents chose for him, like other students. It was a necessity to pay his bills, to feed his cat. The thought reminded him to text Celestino and accept the extended offer of a position at the café.

Since his grandfather got sick and Yuri was put in the position of taking over the finances, he realized what little there was left. The medical bills were constant, using up most of the money his grandfather had saved over the years for Yuri’s college education. Even the money he’d won in competition hadn’t lasted long—and that was a lot. It was all handed over to the corrupt organizations that would have just as soon watched his grandfather drop dead in front of the bodega down the street had he been penniless.

Yuri looked up from his essay to type out a message to his new boss, which was immediately read and replied to.

_Celestino: You said you can work weekends, right? Come in tomorrow at 1 P.M. for training on espresso basics and a coffee tasting. Dress code is a t-shirt and jeans, no leggings or yoga pants. Hair up, no jewelry on your hands or wrists. Basic food safety._

He texted back his understanding, then resumed his psychology paper, ignoring the black ‘X’ he’d tried to scrub off with hand soap, dish soap, rubbing alcohol, Windex, mineral oil, a pumice stone…

It was incredibly hard to concentrate on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs when he felt so angry, remembering the gaze of last night’s DJ—because that was all Otabek was to him at that point. A DJ. A gazing, wanting, squirming DJ who played the songs he _knew_ Yuri liked. Who met eyes with him while he danced, who glanced at the empty poles near the piano, a suggestion. A request? Yuri didn’t fulfil it, whatever it was, instead using his randomly selected partner as a pole, avoiding the lips that begged to be kissed while they moved in sync.

Now, in his bed, Potya-cat sleeping at his feet, the thoughts caught up to him in a mostly unexpected way. He pushed his laptop aside and closed it; the draft would be autosaved. He had research to do on the base of the pyramid: on physiological needs.

His body was _begging_ for release.

The previous night, he had pushed away the arousal that came with the gaze of his old friend. _Friend_. Who was he kidding? It had been a hopeless, endless crush that started the moment Bek reached out to him, asking for a connection. Calling him a warrior. He’d been the only person involved in Yuri’s dance career to recognize the slobbering, toothy beast that moved within him, barely contained by the graceful sway on his tiptoes.

His pants were unzipped, and he was feeling pleasure and heat and friction like he’d never been touched before. His cat snored, rolled over onto his foot. He continued, ever hardening in his own hand.

Yuri thought of Bek’s face while the pressure built, something he hadn’t done in a while. The details were fuzzy, but his body reacted very positively. He thought of the way Otabek looked dancing, almost five years previous. Strong and quiet, elegant. His back was far broader than Yuri’s ever would be, not only because of the age difference but because he was a naturally broader man.

He bit his lip at the thought, muscles tensing everywhere. Since when did he want to be overpowered?

He was cleaning up a slimy mess from his stomach moments later, feeling more than just the usual shame of midday masturbation. Even though he’d been rejected years prior, there was still that aching desire. Perhaps _because_ he’d been rejected.

Yuri always was a sore loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think linking songs mid-text is annoying? Wait 'til I start linking memes. It's coming. She's nothing if not a layered fic, folx.


	2. boys will be bugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't mess with me I'm a big boy now and I'm very scary_   
>  _I punch my walls, stay out at night, and I do karate_   
>  _Don't message me cause I won't reply, I wanna make you cry._
> 
> [Boys WIll Be Bugs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uREGk0fT0GQ) / Cavetown
> 
> (This fic has a Spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xJpYx4iEoZ5lrrop5ZOxF?si=f7iC5_oPS46tgE9EzzejBA).)

One of the reasons Yuri chose Kimchi Café was its central location between his too-empty house and too-crowded campus. Walks through the neighborhood were usually pleasant, even in the rain.

Usually.

He heard the group of protestors around the corner before he saw them, chanting their words full of hate and judgement. They were outside a small Taiwanese restaurant he knew was owned by an older transgender man. Since Yuri was on the way to his training shift, he could only toss them a middle finger. He called out a string of vulgar insults as he jaywalked to the other side of the street. He’d left a little early, but his grandfather had always told him in thick, powerful Russian: _if you don’t arrive early, Yurochka, you’re as good as late._

The pang in his belly reminded him that he missed having someone to speak Russian to. There was Victor, a first-generation immigrant, but he was a hopeless idiot and therefore not an option for conversation. Maybe he’d plan a visit to the university’s Russian student union or join the language club they offered. (Yuri’s snort was unintentionally audible.) He wouldn’t, of course, because he didn’t want to spend time with anyone who didn’t have whiskers and cute little bubble toes.

His hands gripped the straps of his backpack, which held his laptop and textbooks so he could get work done in the café if his training ended before closing time. He tried to be excited for the opportunity to learn about something he was at least mildly interested in, but in truth he just wanted to turn back. Apologize to Celestino and go for a run to clear his mind instead. Run so far, so long he left the city and its dusty memories and started somewhere new. He’d take up dancing again, rise back to the top, take up necromancy and resurrect his family. Live with Potya and zombified _Deda_ in a house he bought with the spoils of his fame and talent.

It was a childish dream from the get-go. Even when he held trophies and medals, cameras flashing on him, he wouldn’t ever have been able to support himself for his whole life. He was always doomed to join the working class, always one injury or bad competition away from being poor and useless to the world of ballet.

Kimchi Cat Café was where his future was now, and oh, he had no idea how accurate that statement would turn out to be when he put his hands on the cool metal door handle and yanked it open. The Café was warm and well-lit, just as it had been during his interview. Instead of his eyes catching on the furnishings and other details that created such an open, peaceful ambiance, Yuri looked straight up into two sets of eyes watching him over the top of the espresso machine.

His defenses bristled like an alley cat. Should he hiss? Arch his back? Those people were going to be his coworkers. They were staring; the prolonged eye contact felt like a threat. His tread halted purposefully far from the counter, shoes screeching against the waxy hardwood.

“Can I help you?” Asked the female barista, sounding a little more than timid. She was an attractive woman with big, jewel-toned eyes and dark hair. She looked older than Yuri—probably a grad student.

“Yuri Plisetsky,” he said, as though it should be obvious and was therefore a waste of his breath. “I’m here for training.”

“Oh,” she said, her features lighting up almost instantly. “You’re so adorable. How old are you? We get to work together! Wow!”

Yuri instantly felt the heat of an angry glare aimed right at him, the prickling of his neck hair all too familiar. Ballerinas tended to passive-aggressively glare at one another across rooms, too, daring each other to step one pointe shoe out of line. His gaze shifted to the tall man now standing protectively (a weaker person might have used a word closer to ‘menacingly’) behind Sara, his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m Michele, and this is my younger sister Sara _who is absolutely_ _not_ on the market for anyone, especially a punk like you. Got it?” He narrowed his eyes at Yuri, who stood in bewilderment in the middle of the lobby, his backpack now hoisted onto one shoulder.

Yuri hated being called a punk. It reminded him heavily of his early ballet career; a time when he was swing dancing with who he wanted to be and who he was told to be.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he growled, feeling his temper start to boil. His coat was too thick to wear inside for so long, and he was already getting sweaty and it made him pissed. “I’m not here to make friends _or_ enemies. In fact, I wouldn’t even bother to scrape either of you off my shoe if I stepped on you. I’m not interested in your girlfriend—”

“She’s my _sister_.”

“—and I’m sure as hell not interested in you. _Got it_?” Yuri raised an expectant eyebrow and jabbed his finger toward the space they occupied. His temper was wild, sure, but he wouldn’t have given in to an outburst had Michele not been asking for it. The stubborn tilt of Yuri’s hip begged the much larger man to keep pushing him.

Of course, he didn’t. In fact, Michele seemed almost relieved that Yuri had turned out to be such an insufferable person. Maybe he thought Sara would stay away from him because of it. His face settled into a smug twist of his lips. “I’ll show you to the training room, then.”

And that he did, leading Yuri silently down a comparatively cramped hallway, past the door that led into the cat room. He peeked inside, hoping for a glimpse of one of the residents, but instead bumped carelessly into the back of his new coworker. The collision made Yuri’s jaw clamp down on his tongue, but he didn’t apologize for his carelessness. Pleasantries had been thrown so intentionally out the window by Michele—not him.

“Well, here it is,” Michele said, dusting his shoulder where Yuri’s face had made impact. He started to walk away, calling behind him, “Good luck, and I don’t mean to you…poor Otabek.”

Yuri was sure he’d misheard the name. Or maybe, if there was a God, it was more common than he thought. Or maybe Otabek-dirty-goddamn-fuckhole-Altin was behind the door labeled with a bronze plaque: _Training Room_.

Yuri’s fingertips brushed the cool, unforgiving doorknob; he was too proud to pray to any god.

_xyz_

Yuri, aged fifteen, sank deeply into the leather couch in JJ and his fiancée’s apartment. He felt like he was sitting on a giant spit ball; it was far too unsupportive.

The party was meant to be a celebration of the competitive ballet season coming to an end, and of course JJ wanted to host it. He and his fiancée had just purchased their top-floor condo that overlooked the financial district. Yuri had plenty of choice words when he heard where their yearly event would be held, but he was rarely listened to at that age. And for good reason—he was a brat.

The only redeeming quality of the Absolute Train Wreck Party was the presence of his best friend, who sat on the couch right next to him. They’d been pretty much inseparable since Otabek joined their studio at age thirteen. He’d moved to the city with his parents, a duo of lawyer women whose personalities fit like a seatbelt.

“This pizza is pretty good. Wonder where they got it?” Bek commented, eyes shifting toward his fuming friend. It was a see-through attempt to make Yuri focus on something other than the swirling negative emotions that so often overtook him during puberty.

Yuri huffed in response. His arms were crossed; he scowled at the floor. “I don’t know. Maybe read the box.” He stirred when he heard Bek’s laughter beside him. Yuri glared at his friend, accusing betrayal, then back at the wood flooring. He’d bet it was actually laminate; JJ always was a poser.

“Yuri,” Bek said, a cool smile on his lips. “Look at me.”

He did. Green eyes filled with unchecked emotion met brown; calm and collected, a hint of amusement.

“Do you want to go home? I’ll take you home.”

Yuri felt his eyes shift downward, back at his knees. He felt a blush heat his cheeks and he hated it. He wondered if Bek noticed. “I don’t want to go home.” If he went home, he’d end up getting drunk dialed by Victor in the middle of night, complaining about his absence. Or worse: he’d show up at his house and end up passing out on his bedroom floor. For a fifteen-year-old, Yuri had cleaned up other people’s vomit too many times. He shuddered at a particularly nasty memory of cleaning up after his mother before _Deda_ all but rescued him.

“Then let’s talk. How have your classes been? Still on track to graduate even when you’re out here crushing it at ballet every season?” Otabek had leaned into Yuri’s frame of vision, nudging his boot against a dirty off-brand Converse to request Yuri’s full attention. He knew it was a pet peeve of Otabek’s not to make eye contact with someone he was speaking to. He had a bad habit of wearing sunglasses, even inside, when he wanted others to leave him be.

“Duh, never better. Online school is so easy, I could do it _during_ practice and still ace both,” he replied, tilting his head to meet his friend’s interested gaze. Their knees had settled against one another, and Yuri had to steel himself not to pull away. Sometimes when their eyes met he felt a jolt in his stomach, like something slimy swimming through his intestines. Sometimes he looked away because he wanted to be sought out, to be reminded that Bek was demanding his attention.

“You definitely could,” Bek agreed. His words trailed off. He fidgeted with the hem of his leather coat, glanced downward for half a second, indicating he was nervous about something. His legs shifted, his Doc Martens clunking noisily against the edge of the coffee table. He wasn’t usually so clumsy.

Yuri broke their eye contact to pin an accusing look on Otabek’s now-scuffed shoes. “Spit it out,” He prompted.

“You know I’m starting college this semester,” Otabek stated, moving closer to lower his voice under the white noise of the party. Their touching knees molded into two thighs zipped together, two young men ignoring the dangerous feelings the closeness incurred.

“Right.” Yuri raised his eyebrows, impatient for elaboration.

Otabek took a breath, let it out slowly. His breath smelled like JJ’s stupid fucking pizza and it was really hard for Yuri not to focus his gaze on the sensual part of his lips. His friend continued, “I’m going to cut back how much I come to the studio, at least in half. I won’t compete again.”

“Mmm.” The noise was primal, and it came from deep in Yuri’s throat. He hadn’t meant to respond that way. In fact, he’d been expecting Otabek to quit ballet for quite some time; he wasn’t very good at it and he was _very_ good at other things, like mixing music and tricks on his motorcycle. Quickly, Yuri unsealed his lips and tried for words: “But we’ll still hang, right?”

“ _Duh_ ,” Bek said, mimicking his friend’s speech pattern. He was far too polite to say that word without irony.

Yuri offered a smile, a rare treat to anyone but Otabek. He was grateful for their bond, and he wasn’t sincerely worried Otabek quitting ballet would change anything. In fact, for the first time in his life, he might have felt happy for someone other than himself. He was moving on to accomplish other things—it was a positive change for Bek, even if it was simultaneously the end of an era. Yuri felt a wave of emotion roll over him, like the moon pulling the tide or maybe a breeze causing a dandelion to erupt.

More specifically, it was just hormones.

“Good,” Yuri said, then hesitated momentarily, unsaid syllables stuck on his lips like honey. “It would suck to lose you.”

And there it was: his heart, the slimy things he’d been feeling in his stomach, regurgitated in the minute space between them.

He received a throaty chuckle in response and that hurt. “I’m not going anywhere. We can still study together. You can come over for sleepovers once I get my own place. My moms are supportive and amazing, but I think they’d like the space. Work’s been kicking their asses. I swear I’ll never study law, no matter how much they want me to.”

Yuri furrowed his brows at how platonic, how casual the whole thing sounded—Otabek knew that wasn’t how he meant it. They shared moments, sure, where their knuckles brushed as they walked side-by-side and both their faces turned red. Moments where he looked up and Bek was staring at him, or vice versa. Those heart-stopping seconds while they hugged and Yuri felt his friend’s heat and smelled his scent and just wanted to tilt his chin and…

Before he could think of the gesture as lewd or uncomfortable for the entire room of people surrounding them, Yuri used his core strength to kick his leg over Otabek’s lap. He stood up on his knees, straddling his friend’s hips but leaving a polite gap between their thighs.

“You don’t get it, Bek. It would _really_ suck.” A part of him wanted to play it off right there, to sit back down and say he was joking. Maybe he could start a play-fight, wrestle Bek to the floor and jostle each other around until they couldn’t stop laughing.

Oh, but he didn’t.

Yuri placed both his hands on Bek’s face, tilting his chin upward with his palms against that sharp jawline, and leaned in to brush their lips together. His eyes were closed, but he felt strong hands appear on his shoulders, thumbs firmly pressed against either end of his clavicle. Yuri’s eyes fluttered open, lips fell from their wasted pucker. Otabek’s eyebrows were knit together, mouth set in a flat line that was clearly a rejection. His brown eyes were a display of profound negative emotion, like the first dismal chord in a solo violin piece. Something in a minor key, echoing melancholy through Yuri’s chest cavity.

“You’re still in high school,” Otabek said, using the pressure from his hands to guide Yuri out of his lap.

The younger teenager let himself fall, one leg tucked under the opposite thigh, back to the unsupportive couch. In that moment, he felt small. He knew he was literally a very slight young man, but he felt like he was at least half his age, getting scolded for sticking his hand in the candy dish. Yuri pulled his knees together, aware now more than ever that his thighs were hardly wider than Otabek’s upper arms.

Quietly, like his voice had never changed and he was afraid of it cracking: “You _just_ graduated.”

Yuri knew Otabek’s mind too well to believe that a mere three-year age gap was enough for a complete rejection of his feelings. He wasn’t asking for his hand in marriage or even a sexual encounter; Yuri wanted a single, solid piece of evidence that what he was feeling toward his friend was valid and accepted. He didn’t care whether they kissed, but he wasn’t sure how else to express his feelings when words had failed so many times before. Not receiving that comfort when he knew—the more he thought about it, he _knew_ —it wasn’t one-sided was something he couldn’t accept.

“We should have this conversation in private.” Otabek’s voice was as calm as ever.

Yuri’s wasn’t. “I don’t give a shit about what these idiots think of us.”

That wasn’t entirely true; his deep blush was raw shame on display. The party had quieted around them, and several of the guests migrated to the kitchen to avoid the tense encounter. Yuri didn’t look up, knowing everyone would be staring at them, and was grateful that Victor and Katsuki were already shitfaced and elsewhere in the large apartment. He refused to believe every almost-intimate moment he’d shared with Bek was a pubescent fabrication, his mind’s own tease.

Otabek used his index finger to encourage Yuri to look up and meet his eyes. He swatted the hand away.

“We can revisit this when you’re older.”

Yuri knew instantly he’d never want to. The betrayal was cold and hot at the same time. It ran through his veins and split them down the middle. The internal bleeding might kill him. He got up to find the bathroom, to be alone, maybe to cry. Maybe to yell. Maybe he’d break something of JJ’s.

Either way, he left Otabek with one dramatic teenage sentiment: “You’re dead to me, Altin.”

_xyz_

Nineteen-year-old Yuri sat at the conference table in the training room, glaring over the [pour over contraption](https://www.chemexcoffeemaker.com/three-cup-classic-series-coffeemaker.html) in front of him and right into Otabek’s dark eyes. They were still gentle like a foal’s, brown and warm like the coffee he’d prepared. Rational as they observed the young man before him. It was an impasse; the two of them circling like wild animals on the brink of a fight. One wrong move and there’d be blood.

“Have you ever tasted a single origin coffee?” Otabek asked, too casually breaking the silence that had settled between them.

“Of course not. Coffee is _disgusting_ and I won’t drink it,” Yuri spat, and it was artistically theatrical. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the resistance of his denim jacket on his elbows. He broke the pose only to flip up his hood and sink deeper into his chair. “I especially won’t drink anything _you_ made.”

The tiniest smirk begged to be released from the corner of Otabek’s mouth. “I see you’re every ounce as dramatic as you’ve ever been.”

Yuri was quiet. His eyes narrowed. The coffee grew cold between them.

“Your hair’s gotten way longer and you finally got your nose pierced like you wanted,” he said. “I like the hoop. It suits you.” There was a softness in his gaze, in the words as they slipped from his lips. Adoration, if one looked close enough. Yuri didn’t bother. “But you’re still the same Yuri. Still dance the same, too, like wildfire in the summertime. Unstoppable.”

Right. The Piano Room. Yuri never would have done that, had he known that not two days later, they’d be in the same room again. The idiot probably thought he was still pining for him, years later, thanks to that display. He felt his face heat; he chalked it up to anger and refused to let his body language hint otherwise.

“I wasn’t dancing for you,” Yuri snarled, setting his chin and scrunching his eyebrows.

“Right,” Bek said evenly. He’d leaned forward in his seat, rested his chin in his palm and propped himself on the table. He let his lips crease into a meaningful smile. “And there’s no particular reason your favorite 80’s songs are in my first Friday set.”

Yuri almost wanted to smirk, because it felt like the power had evened out a little with that not-so-subtle confession from his Arch Nemesis, but his lips instead formed an awkward line. His arms had uncrossed themselves, unintentionally making him seem more relaxed. He shrugged out of his denim jacket and draped it over his chair with his overcoat, pretending the sweat beading on his brow was why he’d shifted positions. “I guess those sleepovers where we both pretended to be attracted to Madonna came in handy for you.”

Otabek shook his head. Yuri hadn’t cared enough to notice before, but his hair was longer, too, though still shaved on the sides. He had it tied back in a small bun at the back of his head. “I never pretended with you.”

Yuri hated the ambiguity of the answer. He was maybe fishing for answers about Otabek’s sexuality, searching for a reason he’d been shot down. His age was a poor excuse; they both knew he was mentally aware enough to be _kissed_ at age fifteen. He’d just won first place in ballet Internationals, damn it. He achieved more during his four years in high school than most people ever would. Yuri got angry all over again and it bubbled behind his lips, begging release.

“Whatever, Otabek. Remember that time I said you’re dead to me? Yeah, I meant that. Like a lot.” Which one of them was Yuri trying to convince, again? “I’m going to ask Celestino for a different trainer so we can both move on with our lives. Pretend we never even met.”

“There isn’t anyone else to train you.”

“Cool. I’ll quit.”

“That’s hardly a rational answer. We both know you need this job.”

At that, Yuri scowled in defiance. Otabek’s eyes were nearly pleading with him for patience, for understanding. He wouldn’t get it; not even an inch.

“Oh? And how do we _both_ know that?”

Otabek didn’t budge. He knew what he’d said; he rarely made mistakes in conversation or probably ever. It was absolutely infuriating. “You know exactly who told me.”

 _Victor_. Damn it.

Yuri remembered it well—walking down the street with Victor, who he’d run into at the grocery store. The idiot followed him home like a stray dog, pointing out the _help wanted_ sign in the window of the cat café as they passed it. A sly smile, a wink. So very Victor, to meddle so deviously while maintaining such a cheerful demeanor. It was all an elaborate set-up to get Yuri back in touch with the only person he’d ever connected with.

 _We want to see you get back on your feet, whether it’s in the studio or outside of it._ Katsuki’s words drifted into his thoughts, and the memory of how he’d so softly said the sentence had the tiniest bit of a calming effect on Yuri. It was unfair how much they intruded. The elaborateness of it was almost criminal, almost genius for a couple of pea-brained, tip-toed, tight-clad papa bear tropes.

Still, he wondered—and he’d never admit it to either of them—maybe it was nice to have had the opportunity laid out before him. Maybe telling Otabek off one more time would help him get over the rejection once and for all. Help Yuri feel comfortable facing the other in a casual setting like a club without feeling like he had to prove how much better off he was alone. As he thought of all the ways he could rip Otabek a new one, communicate how hurt he’d been with slung insults and hissed threats, he realized he was being stared at from across the table, over the round rim of a mug. And why did the eye contact make Yuri _blush_?

The argument that had been brewing on his tongue was squashed. He was fifteen all over again, unsure of what to say to convey his feelings. Unsure of what his feelings even were. He hated how hard it was to be angry on the receiving end of such a meaningful gaze.

Once they started sounding borderline sappy, Yuri immediately grew sick of listening to his own thoughts. “Then let’s just get this over with.”

“Okay.” Otabek nodded—it was one thing they could agree on in an angry sea of things they could not. “So, when tasting coffee, you start with the lightest roast. Our first coffee is from Ethiopia. It’s a Yirgacheffe, so it’s supposed to have a tea-like body and feel thin on your tongue. The flavor notes are dried berries and maple syrup. It’s a little cold now, but that actually makes it easier to find the hidden flavor profiles.”

Otabek verbalized how to slurp the coffee like hot soup to spread it over one’s entire tongue. He explained several technical tasting terms Yuri immediately forgot, except _mouthfeel_ because that one was just ridiculous. He took a confident sip just as Otabek had, slurping noisily, and his features twisted into an exaggerated display. “This doesn’t taste at all like berries _or_ syrup. It tastes like motor oil.”

“That’s fine,” Otabek said, unfazed. He rolled a pen across the table. “Write that down in the notebook I left for you.”

Yuri looked down. Blinded by emotion, he hadn’t noticed the small field notebook in front of him, bound with a soft material. He opened the book to the first page, and Otabek’s neat, all-caps handwriting had scrawled out three words: _ETHIOPIA YIRG. KONGA_ , _GUATEMALA HUEHUETENANGO_ , and _SUMATRA TIGA RAJA_.

Under Ethiopia, he wrote _motor oil, also some dirt._ Yuri’s handwriting was comparatively boyish; a metaphor? Next came Guatemala, and under that he wrote: _the mud pie I made when I was six._ For Sumatra: _the bottom of a mechanic’s oldest work boot_.

“I can see you already have a creative palate,” Otabek commented, standing to lean over Yuri’s shoulder and peek at his notes. Yuri could tell Otabek didn’t need to try very hard to keep a professional tone and it pissed him off. “Don’t worry. After a few tries, you’ll get to the point where you don’t even need to check the bag for the notes anymore. You’ll be able to taste and smell them immediately, like you’ve never had coffee any other way.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Yuri practically cut him off.

Otabek cocked his head, looking right down into Yuri’s eyes. He could see up Otabek’s nose; he had a septum ring tucked in his nostrils, away from view presumably for work. “Why do you say that?”

“I already told you, I don’t like coffee. I don’t like things that smell good and taste bad,” Yuri said, leaning his chair back on the two hind legs so he could look confidently up at Bek, face set in cruel resentment. The shorter layers of his hair had fallen loose from the bun at the nape of his neck, and he felt them tickle his neck as he looked up. “It reminds me that people are like that too. Never genuine.”

Otabek sighed, exhausted, and Yuri smirked at the hard-earned reaction.

It took the older man a moment to roll the words around on his tongue, eyes directed thoughtfully toward the ceiling tiles. When he spoke, it was almost like he was reading from a script. “Yuri, we have to move on to learning espresso, but I think we should have an open conversation before we work another shift together. Will you come over for dinner tonight?”

“Fat chance,” Yuri answered immediately, seeing another opening to stir up some mischief. “You had your opportunity with me and you blew it. Find someone else to romance.” He let his eyes flash cruelly. “I heard that Sara girl is on the market if you’re into airheaded girls. You could probably take her brother in a fight if he tried anything.”

There was a pause in which Yuri realized he’d accidentally admitted to noticing the new bands of muscle over Otabek’s entire body. He’d never embodied the slender dancer aesthetic, but his new physique was indicative of some sort of intense bodybuilding. Maybe CrossFit. He also knew he was being unreasonable and pushy about Otabek’s sexual interests. He’d keep pushing, though, because he deserved a straight goddamn answer.

And, of course, Bek noticed all of that, even if he only mentioned the latter half.

“Yuri,” he all but sighed while preparing the espresso machine for use. He dried out the [portafilter](https://www.espressoguy.com/making_espresso/espresso_machine_diagram) with a bar towel hanging from his belt loop, then set it on the counter to turn his attention toward his trainee. “You aren’t subtle. Not to me. I was your best friend for years.”

Yuri rarely aimed for subtlety when it came to expressing his displeasure, so he wasn’t embarrassed by the call-out. “Then you know I won’t give up.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know during dinner.”

“I’m busy tonight.” Yuri wasn’t busy, of course, but he wanted Otabek to think he was. Or maybe he just wanted to get under his skin some more.

Bek seemed to expect it. Instantly, he said: “Tuesday night works just as well for me.”

“I have class—”

“ _Yuri_.”

“Let me finish. I have class until 6. My number’s still the same. Text me your address.”

Yuri made a mental note to unblock Otabek’s number from his phone and give him a really awful new contact name like _hipster barista man bun dumbfuck_ _thumbs down emoji_.

He had time to think of something more creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I named the cafe "Kimchi" because I know a really cute cat named Kimchi.


	3. godzilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So I'm running through this town in black leather jeans and stupid hats_   
>  _To be or not to be's what he said_   
>  _And I think I'll try and give you up, running pretty low on luck_   
>  _Covered in the sheets of my bed._
> 
> _[Godzilla](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFFmdgB2srU) / With Confidence_
> 
> (This fic has a Spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xJpYx4iEoZ5lrrop5ZOxF?si=f7iC5_oPS46tgE9EzzejBA).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of past underage sexual activities that border on non-con,  
> nonviolent hate crimes driven by homophobia,  
> and lastly, anti-theistic themes.
> 
> ++There won't be any sensitive topics described in cruel detail in this fic, even if there is a warning for it.++
> 
> Also there are a lot of linked bops in this chapter--songs I relate to this fic but didn't make the cut to be a chapter theme. My music taste is kinda all over the place so consider this my apology in advance for the incoming whiplash if you choose to listen.

Otabek’s place was the butt of the joke about urban life and small apartments. It was a thumbnail of a studio that truly suited him, even though it was above someone’s garage in an outskirts neighborhood. The lighting was dim, but the aura was more lived-in than suffocating. The décor was modest and modern, all muted earth tones and sharp angles. It was a private and sensual place to live, Yuri thought, though his host didn’t seem to hold the same sentiment.

“It’s cheap and it does the job,” Bek explained as if it was necessary—as if he was embarrassed about his situation but refused to let that seep past his mask. He came from money, so anything less than a loft in midtown must have felt underwhelming, Yuri figured, as he side-eyed his host’s broad figure. Otabek was hunched over a cutting board next to the sink. His knife moved quickly, expertly, like he hadn’t done anything but practice chopping vegetables since he stopped dancing. Dumb Otabek and his useless Swiss Army knife of a skillset; Yuri couldn’t help but silently fume. He blew a stray hair out of his eyes with a huff.

Otabek’s laptop was open on the table, sounding [music he must have known Yuri would enjoy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9DWhAiYC3E)—and he did, begrudgingly, enjoy it. It was playing before Yuri even arrived, and he hated that it sparked memories for him. In their childhood, he remembered Otabek’s excitement when he’d discover a new sound. He’d play it for Yuri, and they’d choreograph their own silly routines. Otabek had always been passionate about music the way Yuri was passionate about dancing—the way bees were passionate about flowers. It was undeniably written into their DNA. Perhaps the two cousin interests were indicative of something: that they’d always be one degree away from agreeing on anything, or maybe they’d fill in each other’s gaps.

Yuri felt uncomfortable sitting at the table while Otabek prepared the meal, but it wasn’t solely from the inequality in labor. His eyes rested on the older man’s shoulder blades, tensed with careful grace, and felt resentment at how normal it all felt. There Yuri sat in a companionable silence, shoes off, coat placed over the arm of the couch not far from him—it was like they’d never skipped a beat and it wasn’t _fair._

Where was the conversation he’d been promised? He shouldn’t have agreed to dinner. Hell, he shouldn’t have agreed to any of it. He should have kept pretending he was fine without answers, without Otabek. The comforting heat of the electric fireplace was going to drive him to mass murder.

Right when his thoughts were about to erupt into a verbal accusation, Bek slid into the dining chair across from him and it felt like their training session all over again. A time loop, maybe. The table was smaller, this go-around, and the dimmer lighting and the scent of a home-cooked meal encouraged more intimate discourse. Yuri wondered how many people had sat there before him, being charmed by that cool exterior. Like an over-boiled pot, his frustration swelled (and it certainly was frustration, not jealousy, he assured himself).

Contrary to Otabek, Yuri’s only skill outside ballet seemed to be working himself up. He tried to inflate his lungs with a healing breath like his YouTube yoga instructors would advise, but it went down like smoke. He cleared his throat and glared into space between himself and Otabek.

“It just needs to simmer now,” Bek said, and there was a metaphor in there somewhere. His gold septum ring bobbed when he talked; the jewelry suited him. “I chose something low maintenance so we have more opportunity to talk.”

He was surely a mind reader, or more likely, Yuri had steam coming out of his ears.

“So talk,” Yuri said, spitfire. It was pointlessly mean. Though there were two warring sides of him, at least half of one of them wanted the conversation to go well—and it was the half that wanted to work at Kimchi with the cats.

Otabek laughed through his nose, unphased, while he studied his laptop screen. He changed the music to something with [a calmer sound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BE7vBk_zLA4), almost ethereal. Ever the DJ, he was setting the mood the best way he knew how. “I made a playlist for this conversation,” he admitted. “Right before you got here. I was nervous, I guess.”

“Nervous,” Yuri repeated. The eighteen-year-old Otabek he knew never would have admitted that to him, so he didn’t have a sarcastic response lined up in his repertoire. Just like when Bek had so smoothly confessed to designing his eighties night DJ set around Yuri’s favorite classics, the words almost felt like a peace offering.

Bek slid the laptop to the edge of the table so it wouldn’t block their view of one another. “I guess you want me to explain myself,” he said. His brown eyes dragged up from the screen, landed on Yuri. He blinked slowly and found eye contact. “Why I couldn’t get involved with you back then.”

Yuri didn’t let his blank expression falter while he waited for elaboration. He was silently grateful for Bek’s no-nonsense attitude, just as he had been when they were dance mates. The things he said always seemed matter of fact and it was nice to have someone around whose words were worth listening to—back then, of course. Presently, he still had at least one messily painted toenail on the other side of the door.

“There were so many layers to it,” Bek said, back straight and face schooled into a serious frown. “The one I won’t apologize for is the fact that you were a minor and I wasn’t.”

Back when they were friends, their arrangement was unspoken and simple—be candid, receive it back. Yuri didn’t see a single reason for that to change. He felt his impatience growing. “Obviously. But if that was all, you would’ve just said so. Don’t bullshit me, Altin.”

“Right, okay,” Otabek said, then he paused, unsure of where to begin. He looked like he was sifting through a Rolodex in his brain, containing countless reasons why Yuri was not good enough to have been a romantic interest for him. Yuri felt shame turn his face pink and his tongue curled around the first cruel words he could think of.

“Jesus—just tell me you aren’t gay and get it over with.” Yuri brushed a long strand of his bangs from his brow. He usually liked when they covered his face, but he wanted to analyze Bek’s movements, search desperately for clues to help predict what was coming next. He’d already started steeling himself for the encore of embarrassment—but he refused to cheer for it. He was slumped in his seat, blonde hair wild and loose around his lithe shoulders, arms crossed like a shield.

“I’m actually not gay,” Bek confirmed, his features waking up. According to his open body language, that was not on the list of topics that made him uncomfortable. His words were backed with all the self-confidence Yuri pretended he himself possessed. “I don’t choose partners based on the gender binary.”

Yuri peeked over the rim of his shield, tentative. “What does that even _mean_?”

“I don’t like labels,” Otabek explained, waving one caramel hand as if to wave away a gnat. He averted his half-lidded eyes and Yuri wondered if he imagined the hint of pink on Bek’s face. “I do, however, like men and women and everything that lies in between and outside of those labels.”

Yuri was listening. He really was, but he felt like he was missing a very important detail somewhere in there. “That was a lot of words just to say you’re bisexual.”

“Yeah—well, no.” Otabek fussed with the top of his undercut, shifting the part to the opposite side. Some stubborn pieces refused to budge, leaving the longer hairs in mild disarray. “It’s more comparable to pansexuality and panromanticism, because gender isn’t a factor in attraction for me at all.”

“Okay, what does that mean for _us_?” Yuri realized the way his question sounded when Bek’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly in surprise. Awkwardly, he floundered, fished for words. He reeled his foot into his mouth. “I mean, the _past_ us. Us, like, four years ago. Not _right fucking now_. Obviously.”

And Otabek had the nerve to laugh at Yuri as he stumbled over his words, touching his face too much just to busy his hands.

“Yuri, this is going to be sappy and you’re going to absolutely hate it.” He might as well have turned the stove off; his kind smile melted the room like a Salvador Dalí painting. He allowed space for Yuri to halt the conversation, and when he didn’t, Otabek continued. “When we were younger, you constantly left me in awe. Your resiliency. Your passion. That ridiculous determination—I just—I’ve admired you deeply since the day we met.” He paused, shifted in his seat. Looked away briefly. “It was really hard to turn you down.”

Yuri felt the tension in his brows soften. After years of believing he must have been so incredibly undesirable to the person whose opinion had mattered the most to him, those quiet words of affirmation held a lot of weight. He was fully aware that every emotion swelling in his chest was available to read in his eyes and in the way his arms relaxed, uncrossing on their own.

“That night at that awful party,” Otabek continued, making a face at the memory. “You have no idea how much I wanted to show you what it feels like to be kissed by someone who cares for you as much as I did. As I do. Nothing’s changed. Time did nothing for me.”

Yuri looked down, let his hair fall into his face. How was he expected to respond to that? He didn’t feel the same as he did when he was fifteen, that much was set in concrete. The pure adoration he’d experienced had evolved into something more sinister, something corrupted. There would always be love there, he’d known that for a while, but it felt more like lingering, stubborn obligation than romantic affection. Maybe, he figured, that very corruption was what it meant to become an adult.

“I was just a kid back then. Fucking trust me, I get that now,” Yuri said. He chose to ignore most of Otabek’s confession, not because it wasn’t important but because he didn’t have anything to say about it—neither of their feelings mattered if they didn’t focus on the matter at hand. Fiddling idly with the ends of his hair, he let his fingers practice a quick braid to busy them, but his focus was on the conversation. “But you were the only person who ever treated me like my opinion still mattered, then suddenly you graduated high school and you were just like Katsuki and Victor and Chris and, god, _fucking_ _JJ_. Telling me what I couldn’t do because I was only fifteen.” (And he was sure to add the most dramatic air quotes possible around the last two words.)

Otabek swallowed hard; the bob of his Adam’s apple drew Yuri’s eyes to the dark stubble growing along his throat. His hands were folded, thumb brushing repeatedly over a knot pattern on the wood tabletop. He rarely fidgeted; he was intensely uncomfortable. Yuri waited for Otabek to speak, wondered briefly if he should offer some sort of comfort or gentle encouragement. It would have mostly been to sate his own curiosity and that was selfish, so he didn’t. He waited, listening to the soft music and the sound of boiling liquid.

“Before my family came to the city,” Otabek eventually said, his voice steady. He measured his words carefully, like he’d measured the spices in the pot. He used his finger to level the scoop. “An older person took advantage of romantic feelings I had for them. I was pressured into, um, physical things I didn’t fully understand because I thought that was what it meant to have those feelings. I never told you, but it’s actually the main reason we moved here.”

Yuri swallowed; his mouth was dry. He took a sip of the water he’d been given upon arrival.

“I didn’t want that for you.” Bek plucked at his cuticle with blunt nails until it bled. “I panicked when you tried to kiss me. I felt like my own nightmare was happening again, except this time I was the one who…”

Yuri recognized that he was witnessing his old friend coming apart before him. His body was trembling from the tension in his muscles. It was clear he was enormously conflicted about what had happened between them, even as they sat together and conversed quietly about it; two adults who’d had plenty of time to simmer, to let the flavor sink in.

In that moment, Yuri felt his own conflict compound on itself. After just a handful of sentences, everything was different, and it rained on him all at once. He suddenly felt unreasonable for being angry with Otabek. He also felt awful for pretending he was dead for the past four years. Oh, and for ignoring the calls and texts that had come even months after the party and for eventually blocking his phone number and all his social media accounts. Also, for childishly insulting the coffee tasting Bek had put so much effort into; for intentionally making him uncomfortable at his place of work on more than one occasion. In a lot of ways, Yuri realized in that moment and perhaps many before, he still acted like that bratty fifteen-year-old.

“I didn’t know,” Yuri said flatly, unintelligently. God, he felt so dumb. “If I’d just known, I wouldn’t have—”

There were several ways he wanted to finish that sentence: _I wouldn’t have let you deal with that alone. I wouldn’t have pressured you for a romantic relationship. I wouldn’t have been so upset by your rejection. I wouldn’t have cut you off._ Every word of it dried up and cracked in his throat like dehydrated mud. His voice trailed off, a tumbleweed in the space between them.

“Yuri, you couldn’t have known. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone about it. I went back and forth with letting you hold my hand, sleeping in the same bed with you, sharing a blanket when we watched T.V.” Otabek paused to sigh, and Yuri averted his eyes, embarrassed at the memory of their chaste physical relationship. “It was confusing for both of us. With the information you had, your anger was totally valid.”

“Yeah, but—I was supposed to be your friend. I knew there was more to it and I didn’t even ask.” Yuri felt like a total prick; a grade-A frat boy, peer pressure, small dick energy jerk who’d thrown a years-long friendship in the garbage after being turned down romantically. The feelings stemmed from one single pivotal moment. Why had it taken him so long to realize he was so, _so_ wrong? He felt the emotion swell in his facial expression. He bit his lip until it hurt. “ _Bek_.”

Otabek shook his head, and the ends of his hair kissed his jawline. When he spoke, is voice was so understanding, so comforting and Yuri didn’t fucking deserve it for a second. The older man held one of his hands out, upturned on the table and it was an offering of physical comfort. Yuri reached for it instinctively, then made a fist around his glass instead, bristling at the idea of being caught doing something as sentimental as holding someone’s hand.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Bek said, withdrawing the proffered hand and resting it on his own lap instead. “I needed time to work through it on my own and choose to seek help for myself from an adult. I still go to therapy every two weeks. Even the closest friends with the best intentions can’t fix everything for each other, you know?”

_Seek help from an adult_. Yuri knew the phrase was intended to imply neither of them had been at their full maturity at that point, which he supposed was accurate. Otabek had surely grown up since age eighteen. He wasn’t different, per se, but he was wiser, perhaps less concerned with his outward appearance than when they were teenagers. His cool demeanor and classic bad boy aesthetic seemed less manufactured and more like a part of who he was. Yuri wondered if he would go through so much change by the time he reached Otabek’s age which, according to his math, was twenty-two.

“That was what we were? Close friends.” Yuri looked up at the ceiling. He’d only had one friend and a thousand enemies; he still had a lot to learn about people. Perhaps his psychology class wouldn’t turn out to be quite as useless as he expected.

“On the verge of something else from the beginning until the bitter end. To hormones.” Bek offered a sarcastic toast with his water. He tapped the bottom of the glass against the table before taking a sip.

Yuri watched the older man drink, then set the cup down and press his thumbnail to his lip. The conversation had been hard for him, that much was obvious, and that made Yuri’s emotions muddle into two simultaneous things: he was grateful for the other braving it and sitting down with him (he was self-aware enough to know he wasn’t the easiest person to talk to about _feelings_ ) and he felt guilty because—well.

“Maybe it isn’t worth much now but—I’m sorry, Beka.” Yuri wasn’t sure what he was sorry for; his own actions or that of whoever had hurt his old friend before. He just knew he needed to apologize, and that was a rare feeling for him. He took it very seriously.

Otabek hardly looked shocked, but his eyes widened almost imperceptibly before his lips tugged into a warm smile. “Thanks, that actually means a lot. Me too. I mean—” He pressed his lips together and swallowed. “Sorry I didn’t—you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There was a quiet moment, and the silence was a lot less infuriating the second time around. Yuri offered Bek a tight smile to cover the aftershock of embarrassment over laying his emotions out so plainly. He let his eyes shift around the room while he spoke, deciding to change the subject to something lighter. He stumbled over the pleasantries, out of place. “So, uh, how are your moms? You moved out like you wanted to. Uh, obviously, I guess.”

“They’re loving the empty nest.” Otabek grinned, tucked his hair behind his ear. “Me too, if I’m honest. I walked in on them having sex way too many times.”

Yuri felt his shoulders shake in a weak laugh. “Remember that time they were getting it on in—?”

“— _the laundry room_.”

“And they had the spin cycle going.”

“God, that was so sick. Yuri—I’m scarred for life.”

“It’s got to be, like, eighty percent of the reason I’m gay.” Yuri looked to the ceiling, contemplating. “No, ninety.”

Otabek snorted—and it was glorious. Yuri had never seen him act as candid as that night. As a teenager, Bek was rigid when showing emotion, much more concerned with his cool, curated aesthetic. Maybe they’d both grown in their time apart, become totally new people who just happened to share a past. He wondered if they’d really put in the effort to get to know one another again.

Otabek’s eyes flicked down to the table, then fluidly back up to Yuri. It was perhaps a little coquettish, but that assumption seemed dangerous. A space opened up in the conversation for Otabek to ask about Yuri’s family. He didn’t, which meant Victor had also told him about his grandfather. He was almost grateful; he wasn’t quite comfortable with turning the conversation on his own issues.

Yuri looked up when Otabek rose from the chair across from him.

“I think the food’s probably ready,” Bek said, reaching in the cupboard for two bowls that didn’t match.

Minutes later, a hot plate of bread made from scratch, sliced and toasted, sat on the table between them. A bowl of liquid steamed in front of Yuri, and he savored the scent of garlic and leeks. He hadn’t been cooked for since his grandfather got sick. Since he pushed away everyone who cared about him at the studio. He had a sudden longing for the other Yuuri’s katsudon—maybe he’d request it soon.

“What’s in this?” he asked, as he peered into the bowl of soup he’d been served.

“Just some vegetables I already had. But I made the broth from scratch,” Bek said. He seemed to hesitate before he continued. “I was going to make pirozhki for you, but I couldn’t find a good vegan recipe.”

And that would have been presumptuous—they both knew it. It felt like a prod to get Yuri to talk about his grandfather. Or maybe it was an invitation, reassurance that his dinner table was a safe space. Bek probably knew neither of those tactics would get him to talk before he was ready.

“I’m not vegan,” Yuri said, then immediately realized he was being self-centered. Bek had clearly been referring to himself. He grasped for something appropriate to say. “You are?”

“Yeah, I have been for two years now,” Otabek said, reaching over to his laptop to change the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sZTpLvsYYHw). He’d moved it to the counter, dangerously close to the sink if you asked Yuri. There wasn’t much counterspace to choose from, though.

“Hmm, no you haven’t,” Yuri sniped. He tasted the soup. It was good and he was going to finish it too fast to be considered polite. “What kind of vegan wears a leather jacket? And your Docs? I demand an explanation.”

Otabek’s eyes were busy measuring Yuri’s reaction to the meal, but he was smiling. “That’s different. I’ve had those for years. If I just threw them away, wouldn’t that be more disrespectful toward the animal?”

“Right.” Yuri was smirking, eyeing Bek through his bangs. His shoulders rounded over his bowl like an alley cat being shown human kindness for the first time. “That’s a longwinded way of saying it would have ruined your aesthetic.”

He observed as Otabek laughed through his nose. His posture was straight, polite, and he ate at a normal pace. If he hadn’t been before, Yuri was, in that moment, made intensely aware of their differences as people. He wondered if they’d grown in opposite directions in their time apart, if he should attempt to find out. Between bites, he ventured, “So you’re a barista.” He slurped a spoonful of broth. “And a DJ and a goddamn chef, apparently. Are you a student, too, or did you already graduate?”

“I wouldn’t say chef. It’s just soup. But, uh, I graduated a semester early.”

Yuri should have guessed that much.

“Now I’m in grad school. Women’s, gender and sexuality studies.”

Right—and of course he got into a grad program. Yuri was tentatively happy for him and a little curious about what else he’d accomplished.

Otabek took a heavy sip of his water, leaving a mustache of droplets on his upper lip. “Or queer studies, maybe? The name isn’t really decided yet. It’s an evolving program.”

“You did say you don’t like labels.” Yuri swallowed his bite, not quite chewing the potato enough. He cleared his throat, half because the potato chunk wasn’t going down right, half to fill a short silence. He wondered if small talk was a skill one had to build up, or if he’d be bad at it forever. “Uh, what do you do in your free time? Like, if you have any, I mean.”

Otabek wiped his mouth with his napkin before he spoke; polar fucking opposites. “That’s a little complicated right now.”

Yuri blinked, allowing silence to imply his questions.

Otabek pressed his empty spoon to his lips. It took a second for him to speak, because he insisted on chewing and swallowing first. “You know those protestors that have been loitering outside places like The Piano Room?”

“You mean…” Yuri spoke the words with more than a little bit of wariness. “Gay bars?”

“Queer spaces, multicultural spaces, schools that teach evolution in their curriculum, abortion clinics. It isn’t just gay bars,” Otabek told him, and the expression on his face was suddenly a lot more serious. “They’re getting rowdier by the day. Someone has to do something before they cross any serious lines.”

Yuri bit deeply into a slice of bread he held with his entire fist, which was another way of wordlessly asking for elaboration.

“So, like, that’s what I do. In my free time.” Otabek’s face split into a proud grin. “My classmates and I have made it into a sort of extracurricular activity.”

Yuri thought back to the group outside the club just days before, how he and the other danseurs had slung careless, rude comments right back at them. “I’ve said things to them before, but they hardly listen.”

“Because they’re brainwashed,” Otabek said. Yuri wasn’t sure he’d seen that much disgust on Bek’s face before. “They’re part of that nasty Centerpoint cult.”

Yuri had heard of them, many times. He’d passed by bodegas with newspapers out front, the headlines stating things like _Centerpoint: hate crimes or freedom of speech?_ and _Local church group demonstrates outside strip club_. He’d never put much thought into them, never questioned his own safety like he probably should have.

“What can you even do about it?” Yuri’s full belly was a welcomed source of comfort in what could have been a very awkward night. He realized then that it was quite the opposite; he was dangerously close to enjoying another human’s company for the first time since his _dedushka’s_ death.

“Legally, not much,” Otabek said. “But there’s always a gray area with politics, especially grassroots activism if you’ve got enough people behind the movement.”

“So you, like, protest and shit?”

Bek nodded. “Sometimes, if there’s a reason.” His weight shifted and he rested his head against the wall as he spoke. He looked more at ease than before, like time really hadn’t changed anything for him. Like they were teenagers again, bonded seamlessly. His food was half-finished and forgotten on the table in front of him. “You know, we’re organizing a pride march for next month. You’re welcome to come—or help out if you want.”

Yuri snorted, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. This time, the gesture wasn’t defensive. “Oh—so you want me to join _your_ cult.”

Otabek shook his head, but the smile playing at his plump lips suggested amusement. “A gathering of like-minded people can be problematic, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“I don’t know, Bek. It sounds a little cult-y.”

“Hmm. A queer cult of heathens against heteronormativity and gender standards. Sounds like something we would have done together back in the day.” Bek’s lips were taut, expression bordering unreadable and exploratory. “I guess it depends on where you want this to go now.”

And Yuri hesitated. He hadn’t thought much about their relationship past that moment. He felt a little foolish for it. They were coworkers; they were going to see each other whether they decided to rekindle the friendship or not. On the one hand, their civility toward one another didn’t feel forced or inauthentic. On the other much heavier hand, Yuri wondered if it was just a matter of time before things would explode again. If the two would soon realize the only things they’d ever really had in common were ballet, coming from an immigrant family and being queer. Perhaps their similarities stopped there, and they’d run out of things to talk about and everything would fall apart for a second time.

Yuri wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with that, and he was visibly grateful when he didn’t have to answer right away.

“Back then, I used to wonder if I was the only one who got to see you like this. At a loss for words, I mean,” Otabek said, wistfully, like he was hardly aware of the sentence coming out of his mouth. The intense eye contact he used to pin Yuri to his seat made it seem more intentional. “I used to crave being privy to sides of you no one else knew about. It was more than a little possessive if I’m honest.”

_That’s another reason we didn’t kiss on that couch._ The unspoken words hung between them like a feathered toy, ripe to be swatted at and dismembered. Yuri took the chance, pounced it with all his might.

“I was young, not blind. Not stupid. Don’t try to take away my agency by suggesting I didn’t understand our relationship,” he said, the words themselves harsher than his tone. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate on their meaning, to say that he knew Bek once saw him as a treasure; a hunk of raw emerald wedged deeply in a cave wall. Yuri swallowed anything sappy he might have said like bile after Tex Mex. “I’ll have to think about your march thing. I’ve never done something like that before.” A short hesitation. “Could I still wear black?”

At that, Bek chuckled, and it was comforting like the soup, like the dim lighting and the quiet music. “You can wear whatever you feel most yourself in. That’s the whole point.”

“Definitely black. Maybe something purple, too, since color blocking is _so_ in right now.”

Otabek sensed the joke, knew Yuri cared very little about trending fashion. He joked back, maybe narrowed his eyes a little flirtatiously. “It’s not color blocking if black and faded black are your other two colors.”

And Yuri wondered if forgiveness was supposed to come so easily.

_xyz_

It wasn’t until after his second training session passed that Yuri felt comfortable venturing into the cat room. The café sold passes to see the cats for an hour, which Yuri was glad to pay even after Otabek told him to forgo it. The money went toward the county humane society since the cats technically belonged to them until they were adopted. In a way, Yuri wished he’d understood that before getting a job at the café—he’d assumed taking care of the cats would be among his responsibilities. Instead, a bushy-tailed shelter volunteer stopped by at various points throughout the day, and he was always sure to glare at them.

The cat room was almost as large as the coffee shop itself, separated by a wall that was mostly windows, making it feel like a large terrarium full of couches and plush, mismatched armchairs. The rest of the walls were lined with shelves and tunnels for them to play on. Yuri’s eyes landed on a small hammock mounted in a corner where two of them slept together. He wondered if Potya could ever be that close with another animal, felt almost guilty for not giving her the chance.

The cats that were awake had started surrounding him, sniffing at his shoes, the moment he passed through the door. They were deciding if he was worthy of joining their coven, and he was confident they’d accept him because he played dirty. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a bag of treats he’d bought specifically for that moment. Yuri grinned when a kitten started climbing the leg of his denim pants, recognizing the crinkling noise of the foil bag. An older cat rubbed its face against his shin, begging not to be forgotten.

By the time someone else entered the room, Yuri was on cloud nine—sitting on the floor, legs crossed, his zip hoodie discarded on the otherwise unused couch behind him. A small tabby cat sat on it, recognizing it as something soft and new and curious. A black kitten had climbed its way to Yuri’s shoulder, its tuxedo brother not far behind. An adult cat was curled in his lap, belly full of treats, kneading biscuits into his thigh. (He preferred his jeans ripped to hell, anyway.)

“Sir, you’re not allowed to feed the cats,” came Otabek’s voice behind him and his tone was manufactured politeness.

“Don’t use your customer service voice on me.” Yuri looked up and back, met eyes with the intruder. “That shit is creepy. Makes me feel like I’m going to the principal’s office.”

“You went to online school.” Otabek sat crisscross on the floor next to him, ignoring the couch in favor of joining Yuri’s kitty cuddle puddle.

The kittens that had scaled Yuri jumped down and scattered, startled by the new arrival. He gave Otabek a dirty look for it, but it was only playfully venomous. “It’s not as relatable if I say you reminded me of my grandfather lecturing me in Russian about _responsibility, Yurochka_.”

“You shouldn’t feed the cats, Yurochka,” Otabek said with thickly accented Russian. “Or the customers will think they can too and they’ll all get really fat.”

Yuri felt his body stiffen at the use of the language that was stale in his mind, at best. He knew Bek’s family was from Almaty and that he’d spent time there as a young child, so of course he spoke some Russian and Kazakh. It was part of the reason they bonded so quickly when they first met.

If anything, Otabek knew how to read a room. In stiff, rambling English: “Sorry, was that weird? I shouldn’t have—It’s just. If they get fat, the humane society will cancel their contract with us and Celestino would—”

“You just surprised me.” Yuri busied his hands by petting a cat that had wandered up to him in search of treats. He was out. He let his eyes flicker to Bek briefly and offered the smallest, saddest smile in the world. “I miss speaking Russian. I’m afraid I’ll, like, forget it or something.”

Bek smiled back. He blinked slowly, a peace offering in the language of feral cats, but said nothing. Yuri was grateful he still didn’t try to push him to talk about his grandfather’s death.

“But don’t you ever call me _Yurochka_ again,” he said, the Russian words sounding more intimidating than their English counterparts. He wanted to squash the mood before it got too sentimental. “You’re the only one who calls me Yuri anymore. Everyone at the studio calls me Yurio or—god— _kitten_ like I’m some two-dollar twink.”

He switched back to English halfway through, unsure of how to say the last part in the language he’d only spoken in a familial setting.

Otabek’s laughter echoed off the walls, almost stirring the napping cat in Yuri’s lap. “Victor only uses nicknames to get on your nerves. He’d stop if you pretend to let it go.”

The both felt the way the room shifted with the introduction of that familiar name. Yuri could tell by the way his trainer pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on a plush mouse toy on the floor between them.

“You sure know a lot about what’s going on with Victor,” Yuri said, fully intending for the words to sounds exploratory, prodding. Maybe the tiniest bit accusatory. “What’s up with that?”

Otabek’s expression was relaxed, blank when he looked up—and it was purposefully guarded. “He reached out to me, not the other way around. Don’t pretend you hadn’t already figured that out on your own.” An inhale, like a drag from something that hurt. “He was worried about you, Yuri.”

“Worried—right. Katsuki probably made him do it,” Yuri argued with zest. “Or he just wanted me to come back to the studio because all his other students are shit. I made him look good.”

“He didn’t mention ballet at all, actually,” Bek shared, reaching to pet a cat as it walked past him. It sped up its pace to avoid his touch. “In fact, I’ve never seen Victor so genuine. He even dropped that fake smile bullshit. He spoke openly about noticing signs of clinical depression in you, which didn’t surprise me since he lives with Yuuri Katsuki and we both know how rocky his mental health can be. He thought when you cut them off that you were trying to _get rid of your worldly ties_ —and those were his exact words.”

“He’s so fucking dramatic,” Yuri said, taking the opportunity to insult Victor rather than own up to being shamelessly called out about the state of his mental health. His grandfather died. For fuck’s sake, of course he wasn’t going to be okay for a while. “He thinks I’m weak like his husband, with all his medications and his stupid sunlight lamp.”

“I don’t know if I’d call Katsuki weak. Seeking help for his depression was really hard for him, don’t you remember? We were still going to the studio together back then. It took weeks of Victor begging him to see a psychiatrist before he even considered it.” Otabek’s gaze was half lidded, smile gentle and reminiscent, and it was unfair how easy it was for him to remain composed when Yuri felt like he could erupt at any moment. “I think doing tough things is how we get stronger.”

“You’re a fountain of wisdom, Bek. Truly.” Yuri’s voice seeped sarcasm because that was easier than admitting he was right.

“I know. I’m a connoisseur of coffee, I speak Russian…” Otabek trailed off, eyes narrowed in concentration. He idly scratched a tuxedo cat that had ventured up to him and this one eagerly allowed it. “I ran out of things to say. Bragging is hard.”

“Not if you have things to brag about.” It was a tease, though Yuri wondered if it would fall flat and come out as an insult. It didn’t because Bek seemed to recognize the way his lips curled and his head cocked to the side so he could peer through his bangs at his target. The joke earned him a playful elbow to the ribs. Yuri faked annoyance for dramatic effect. “Yeesh—I was kidding. You’re good at a lot of stuff. You’re just too gentlemanly to admit it.”

Bek chuckled, scratched the one cat that decided to trust his treat-less self at the base of its tail. “I actually prefer the term _chivalrous_ because of its gender neutrality.”

Yuri grumbled a few Russian cuss words to show him what he thought of his ‘gender neutrality.’ They sank into a comfortable silence in which Yuri played with several cats with a feathered toy on a stick and Otabek watched him with kind eyes.

Yuri pretended not to notice.

_xyz_

Victor’s ballet studio was a wreck.

The logo on the awning had been covered, first with white spray paint and then in blue: _Repent or perish (Luke 13:3)_. There were no traces of violence; the windows weren’t broken and the lock remained untouched, but the act was certainly malicious.

And Victor’s studio wasn’t the only business to be targeted. A short scroll through social media showed Yuri that several venues in their neighborhood, mostly owned by queer people or marketed toward queer people, had been vandalized overnight.

He remembered what Otabek had told him about the legal gray area in which Centerpoint operated. Surely, literal hate crimes couldn’t go unpunished. Centerpoint’s social media was exploding with boasts about their actions, photos of the damages but not of faces or people. The captions read: _reclaiming history_ , and then a bible verse Yuri wasn’t obliged to read. He wanted to text Otabek, check if he’d seen the news, but his hands were shaking with rage.

Besides, he’d visited the studio for one single reason: to tell Victor to fuck the fuck off and go to hell for meddling in his personal life.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Yuri spat the moment he walked through the studio’s door and met eyes with an anxious, sweating Katsuki. “Where’s the geezer?”

“Victor’s in the office,” he replied, looking more than a little upset. The business he owned with his husband had just been the target of a hate crime, after all. Yuri felt a tinge of sympathy, maybe a little bad for trying to make a joke out of it before gauging Katsuki’s mood. “He’s on the phone with someone to come take the awning down.”

Yuri pursed his lips, then showed himself to the office behind the counter. He peeked in the small window on the door, and, as promised, Victor was on the phone, cradling his forehead in his palm. He looked dejected, defeated. It was the least like a nearly rich, world-famous dancer with the husband of his dreams as Yuri had ever seen him present himself. His hand hesitated on the door handle, then fell to his side. “Katsuki—listen up. Go get the ladder from the alley and set it up outside the studio. I’ll be back in ten minutes and you better fucking have it ready.”

“What are you…?” Katsuki trailed off, seeming to realize Yuri was in the midst of what Victor would have called a ‘stubborn streak’ and he wasn’t going to listen to anything anyone else had to say about the plan coming together in his mind.

Yuri left, and he was gone a lot longer than ten minutes. To him, as he walked along the street and saw the other businesses _in his goddamn neighborhood_ that had been targeted, time felt like the wind in his hair; there, but not really. He carried bags from several different stores, and they were growing heavy. He picked up his pace as he returned to the studio in a determined trance.

“What are you going to do?” Katsuki asked him, and it seemed to have taken him the entire time Yuri was gone to find the question.

Yuri tied his hair up out of his face and shed his coat. He let it fall to the sidewalk, and Katsuki picked it up and draped it over his arm. The younger danseur scaled the ladder, a single-use grocery bag draped over his shoulder and a paintbrush between his teeth.

“I’m gonna do what I do best—show other people up,” Yuri said, though the words were hard to understand though his clenched teeth. At the summit of the ladder, Yuri took the brush from between his lips and dug through the bag. The sound of the plastic was like loud static in an old movie; he was a man on a mission.

It took him hours, but the final product surprised even him. Painstakingly, he’d painted colorful stripes in repeating rainbow order as a background, then used stencils to write: _love thy neighbor_. The phrase was oversimplified and a little corny, he knew, but the message was meant for only a certain group of people. It was tongue-in-cheek—just his style. He hand-painted the studio’s Instagram handle in the bottom right corner of the fabric as the last touch.

A second surprise came when he climbed back to street level. Both of his idiot ex-instructors were waiting for him. Victor held out a cold, sweating bottle of water, which Yuri took and drank from greedily. It felt a little like their old dynamic, but the look of respect and gratitude and (oh for fuck’s sake, was that…?) love on Victor’s face wasn’t because of his ballet skills.

“I’ll call the awning company back and cancel the replacement. This one’s way better than anything they’d give us,” Victor said, with a gentle smile that seemed a lot more genuine than his typical faux-cheerful grin. Yuri averted his eyes when he thought Victor might tear up a little; the man was a weakling, a sap. A loser whose jawline was just this side of too sharp.

The art—it wasn’t a loving gesture to show his affection toward the annoying couple and their idiot business. It was a defiant action—a raised fist because he _hated_ losing. He hated that other people thought Victor and Katsuki were fair game. That they were easy targets to torment. No, that was _his_ job. Fuck Centerpoint for thinking they had the right to interrupt Yuri’s regularly scheduled bullying of the pair. He snapped a picture of his handiwork and posted it to every one of his social media accounts for all his followers within the dance community and outside of it to see.

**yuri-plié-sky** _We've never been better, fuckers._ _#lgbtqiaallday #rainbowsovercrossbows #queerwithoutfear #fuckcenterpoint #ireallyhatethosepricks #likealot_

The post went viral overnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So:  
> This took way longer than I meant for it to because I realized last second that I hate every word I've ever written or thought. I'm trying really hard to push past my own insecurities and actually accomplish my goal, which is to get better at fiction. So please, if you guys notice anything that needs fixing or have any questions, tell me!! Please be my editors because I want to eventually write original works that don't make me want to throw myself in the garbage.
> 
> TY for your time!! See ya next lvl>>


	4. never had the balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I thought it would be simple enough_  
>  _and I had to grow up to learn all the ways that it's not_  
> 
> 
> _I never thought that I'd wanna call it quits in my whole life_  
>  _I never aimed to feel confused, I blame myself to tell the truth_  
> 
> 
> _If I had to live a life only being polite, I'd be giving in_  
>  _(I'm never gonna do it.)_
> 
> [Never Had The Balls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMe4MrYpH3M) / Rex Orange County 
> 
> (This fic has a Spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xJpYx4iEoZ5lrrop5ZOxF?si=f7iC5_oPS46tgE9EzzejBA).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: there are some pretty self-deprecating lines where Yuri is struggling with possibly being on the aromantic spectrum. In a way, I think if you're questioning this about yourself, the direction this chapter/entire fic takes might actually be therapeutic but I figured I'd tag it just to be safe.

Yuri showed up for training early the morning after he painted the ballet studio’s awning. He was scheduled to come in at 8, but he ended up waiting in the training room for Otabek for a good ten minutes. The silence was fantastic, and he used it to sip on the sweet beverage Sara had prepared for him. Without her brother around, he noted, her company was significantly more pleasant. While he waited for her to make his latte, they had a light conversation about their university majors and a few interests. She was a dancer, too, though she leaned more toward hip-hop than ballet. Yuri thought maybe he’d ask her to show him some dance moves in her style next time he saw her. That would be easier for him than any further pleasantries; if he’d learned anything about socializing in his nearly twenty years, it was that everyone communicates in their own special language. His centered around avoiding small talk at all costs.

His drink was half gone before Bek burst through the door, out of breath. He leaned forward, hands propped on his kneecaps, and tried to speak. “This morning—” Two big huffs. “My classmate sent me your post. I—”

Yuri was startled silent. From his seat at the conference table, he stared at Otabek with wide eyes. He was caught completely off guard by his friend’s lack of composure, the shedding of the cool exterior he’d been expecting. It sat in a wrinkled pile on the floor like molted scales.

He refused to mirror that vulnerability and collected himself enough to say something sassy: “Wait—you don’t follow me on Instagram? Fake friend.”

“I’m so _proud_ of you.” Bek ignored the snipe. His breathing was on the verge of evening out and he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the hem of his white t-shirt.

Yuri wanted to crack a joke about the word ‘pride.’ He wanted to change the subject, maybe. No, actually, he didn’t. He wanted to bask in the praise from someone he admired—fuck, he _admired_ Bek. He’d have to address that stray thought later—but everything in his gut told him not to. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of something he did on accident. He felt like a fraud. For once in his life, Yuri chose to be humble.

“It was nothing. I saw something that was shitty and I un-shittied it.” Yuri paused, rolled the words around on his tongue. “Un-shat it.” He took a sip of his coffee to drive home how casual he intended to sound.

“It’s so far from nothing,” Otabek said, now approaching him. He smelled like sweat and the pheromones did something primal to Yuri. Bek grabbed his wrists, pulled him to his feet. “It was the most gorgeous display of visual rhetoric I’ve ever been privy to. Your photo could be in a textbook—and it’s definitely going to be on the news. I think that’s a pretty big deal.”

Yuri didn’t know what to say when he was pulled into a hug, and suddenly the touch barrier that had rebuilt itself over the last four years was rubble. Their heights had evened out, so the hug was different than when they were teenagers. Otabek’s scent had matured, too. Somewhere in those four years, he’d started to wear cologne and use something fragranced when he shaved. He smelled like essential oils and Yuri sipped it in like dragging a cigarette. Otabek would be a clove cigarette, he figured, slow burning and smooth on the inhale. The hug was over before he wanted it to be, and his friend pinned him down with just those dark eyes and two hands squeezing his upper arms.

For a moment, the intensity of the eye contact and their proximity made Yuri wonder if he would get his kiss, four years late.

“I just—damn,” Bek said. He’d pulled away, broken contact, and he sounded dumb. Sounded like an idiot who didn’t know how to recognize when someone wanted to be homoerotically backed against a wall and kissed within an inch of their life. A fucking clueless man. “Thank you, is all. Thanks.”

 _You can thank people without using words_ , Yuri thought, then swatted it away. He was being unfair. He was drudging up things from the past, using his sexual attraction to Otabek as an excuse to get out of the verbal half of being friends with someone. He figured he should reach out his metaphorical hand, lend help to the progression of their relationship. And by some cosmic accident, he knew what he needed to say.

“Right before I did it, I thought about our conversation over dinner. About how that group is getting away with this fuckassery because they aren’t violent. And it made me pissed—really pissed—to see Victor and Katsuki in shambles over something someone _else_ did,” Yuri said. He glared at Otabek’s boots. “I’m the only one who gets to pick on them and their gross perfect marriage.”

Yuri paused, shifted on his feet, and wished there was music in the room to make the moment seem less dramatic. Or maybe the presence of Otabek without music just felt weird. “Anyway, thank yourself. You made me realize that sometimes vandalizing property is a good thing.”

“That’s not at all what I said,” Otabek chided, though his tone indicated a smile and there was that breathy laugh again. When Yuri looked up, he was being eyeballed through thick, dark lashes. He looked away quickly, sure he was blushing, and went to work tying his apron around his waist.

Otabek made to start prepping the espresso machine, but he stalled his movement when he noticed the half-empty latte on the table. “Did you change your mind about liking coffee?”

Yuri scoffed and blew some of his bangs out of his eyes. He’d forgotten his hair tie. “It’s warming up to me.” _Among other things_ , he added in his head. It was disgustingly sappy and he loathed every unspoken, dripping syllable of it.

“Did Sara make it for you? She has a signature drink, you know,” Bek said. “It’s an oat milk honey vanilla latte with cinnamon. Most people don’t mind it because it’s sweet.”

“Uh, it’s something like that,” Yuri said, taking the dry bar towel Bek handed him and putting in his apron pocket. He knew the towel was somehow important to espresso basics, but he’d been more than a little distracted at their first session. “She talks a lot and it’s exhausting.”

Bek took the portafilter out of the machine with a practiced twist and dried it out with his own towel, one he’d come in wearing like it was part of his personal wardrobe. He didn’t put on an apron. He set the filter under the grinder, and Yuri watched as it whirred and dumped finely-ground coffee out in a six-second span. “Celestino will schedule us together a lot since I’m your trainer. You won’t work with her alone until you’re self-sufficient on the register.”

Yuri was silently grateful, but he kept it on the back of his tongue. He wasn’t grateful not to be working with Sara—he was grateful to be working with Otabek, and there was a significant difference in the meaning of those two things. That was another deep feeling, meant to be explored late at night when he was alone and restless. Definitely when he wasn’t at work, being swayed by the company of his old friend. The fact that he didn’t find Otabek’s presence intrusive or unpleasant, even though he could recognize he would need a moment alone to sort out his side of things—that was the confusing part.

As Yuri watched Bek measure out two steaming pitchers with whole milk, he wondered if his friend would invite him over again, or if he should take charge and do the inviting once he figured his shit out. He was definitely interested in hanging out again; he’d been swept off his feet by Bek for the second time in his life. He’d truly enjoyed himself during their reconnection dinner, on a level he knew he would have trouble recreating with someone else. Now that they were older, the whole idea of their relationship seemed to be on a higher tier of possibility. Maybe romantic, maybe not. Yuri hadn’t experienced a normal “crush” as others described them to him before, only short bouts of physical attraction to people that came and went like changing outfits. Even his younger self’s feelings toward Otabek were centered mostly around respect and physical attraction, not the idea of being his ‘boyfriend.’

And because of those thoughts, he felt like there was a disconnect in his brain. If there was someone he’d want to date, it would surely be Otabek. He wondered why the feelings weren’t there, on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released. He wondered why he wasn’t ready to fall head over heels, totally invested. Maybe he was heartless or shattered from all those years of contorting his mind and body to the very degree he was instructed to. It was a dreadful feeling and he folded it hot dog style and shoved it as deep down as it would go.

Instead, he forced his mind completely into work tunnel vision.

“Can you remind me how to pull a shot?” Yuri requested. His second day was meant to be focused on steaming and latte art basics, but he was in desperate need of a refresher from their last session.

Otabek smiled his kind smile and nodded. He walked Yuri through the steps, standing close enough to use Yuri’s half of the two-headed machine. “These won’t be good ones since the grinder’s been sitting overnight. I’ll show you how to dial in the grind size so you can do it for us next time, then we’ll go over pulling shots again. Sound good?”

Yuri agreed with a simple nod. The pair then stood in front of the machine for two hours, working toward the same goal: he was to pull his own shot, steam his own milk to drinking temperature without using the thermometer and pour a heart with it.

“We’re only starting with hearts because they’re the easiest,” Bek explained in a way he wouldn’t have had to explain to someone he was just friends with. He had the smallest tinge of a blush and a sheepish grin on his plump lips. “It’s one fluid movement. Up and over.”

Yuri tried, he really did, but the amount of times he poured right over the edge of the cup or sank the design was discouraging at best. Bek even made him start pouring over the sink. It felt like a euphemism for his own heart, lukewarm and clouded and probably a little bitter. He thought he’d never get it, then on his last try he poured the wobbliest, fattest heart either of them had ever seen. It was so ugly and they both laughed their fill—but it was a heart, nonetheless. He had the movement down, thanks to Bek who watched him with trained eyes and instructed him, even guided his wrist at one point and made sound effects to show exactly when and where he went wrong.

Yuri felt heavily supported and so proud of what they’d accomplished together. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to feel that again. Or he wanted to hang out with Bek more. They were putting on their coats to leave, and his reasoning was debatable when he spoke.

“Beka, I want to help with your pride event. Is that still cool?” He looked up to measure the reaction to his use of Otabek’s childhood nickname.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket. He turned to face Yuri. He smiled, just the smallest raise at the corners of his mouth. “I wanted to ask you something, too.”

“Then ask.” Yuri’s mouth had always been quicker than his brain. He paused as he was flipping up his hood, hoping Bek didn’t notice the way he turned to stone; his instincts told him exactly where the conversation was going. He felt something heavy in his belly and maybe his hands started trembling the tiniest bit—either caffeine or nerves. He felt the effects of both.

“We aren’t scheduled to train again until the weekend,” Bek recalled, hoisting his messenger bag up on the table to sift through it. Maybe for his keys, maybe to appear more casual. “And I’m working at this really cool club on Friday. It’s definitely your scene, super dive-y. People do coke in the bathroom, like, nightly.” Bek chuckled, and it sounded stiff and awkward. He was nervous, too. “Would you want to come listen to my set, then maybe we can hang out after? I’m only working the first half of the night.”

Yuri panicked, but his mouth didn’t. “Huffing cocaine in a public toilet is absolutely _not_ my scene. What the fuck?”

“No, that’s not—” Bek gave up trying to look nonchalant. He zipped his bag and hoisted it over his shoulder, then turned to face Yuri. “I just thought it was an endearing fact about the club. Forget it. I meant to say—I want to hang out with you. Like, not here.”

“You want to hang out with me. Alone. At night. And dance?” Yuri shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step closer to Otabek. He didn’t like how open-ended the term ‘hang out’ was. “As friends or…? You need to be more clear.”

“I really don’t like labels,” If Bek was frustrated, he didn’t show it. “But I’m asking you out.”

“On a date.”

“I’m asking you out on a date,” Bek confirmed. The drawn-out explanation had shattered his cool guy exterior and he was exposed for the second time that day. He didn’t seem to care much. Eighteen-year-old Otabek would be blanching, reaching for his sunglasses to hide his expression.

Yuri knew at least one thing the second all the information was presented to him: he wasn’t ready to go out on a date with anyone, even Otabek. He needed a chance to think about the nature of his feelings. There was surely sexual attraction between them, but he didn’t want to accidentally lead his friend on if that was all it was. He felt vulnerable, so he didn’t show a drop of mercy in his response, and maybe that was better.

“I appreciate knowing where you stand for the first time _ever_ , but I’m not going to go on a date with you.”

Maybe it was better if he ripped Otabek’s heart out right there at work instead of on the dance floor of some dirty venue, surrounded by sweaty people. Maybe it was better for Otabek to see him for the cruel, disconnected person he was underneath the fluorescent lights in the privacy of the training room. Maybe it was best if their physical (or maybe-romantic) relationship ended before it began.

And Otabek looked shocked, to say the least. Had he never been turned down? Or was he so sure that Yuri wanted him, that he knew what he wanted at all? There was a moment of silence and Yuri knew he was going to be the one to wreck it, on brand.

“Remember that time you broke my heart?” The words sounded like a punctured balloon. “You’re really, _really_ attractive, but I can’t be more than friends with you right now.” And he meant it, budding crush be damned. He wasn’t going to freefall like Katsuki and Victor, not for a second, not without considering every option beforehand.

Although—he had to admit he felt pretty shitty turning his back and leaving Otabek alone, his mouth agape and frowning, his jacket half-zipped.

_xyz_

In his room after class, Yuri’s doubt had erupted, giving birth to thousands of anxious children. They crawled all over him, all over Potya, and they had teeth and tiny pincers.

 _I didn’t mean to overstep earlier,_ the text from Otabek read. _I want to talk about if you feel comfortable. Maybe on the phone?_

He’d received the message over an hour earlier, but he still wasn’t ready to reply. The tables had turned, leaving him feeling holed-up and reserved while Bek was hit into the outfield; maybe space, floating in his own gelatinous uncertainty. Yuri wanted to feel good about that, knowing the score was even and they’d both been rejected—but his emotions were way too complicated. He almost wanted to talk to someone about it, seek clarity in a new perspective.

For a moment, he considered texting Katsuki. That thought bubble popped as quickly as it had appeared, since he’d rudely declined a dinner invite that night in favor of being alone (not even the promise of homemade katsudon could lure him out, it seemed).

He closed his text messages and opened Instagram instead.

Yuri scrolled through his feed for a tick, then through one of the hashtags he’d used on his photo of the studio’s awning. He had a paper to edit and a discussion board to reply to, if he was being honest with himself, but the mindless peace of social media might as well have been a siren song. He wanted badly to bask in something positive for a while longer—and seeing the responses to his post was _incredibly_ positive. People had copied him, made variations of his simple art all over the city. Usually, herd mentality pissed him off, but he figured he could swallow that since it was for a good cause.

Fuck Centerpoint.

Yuri thought of the trend he’d accidentally inspired, then of the pride march, then of Otabek-motherfucking-Altin. It all kept leading back to Bek. If only to procrastinate his schoolwork a little longer, he tabbed back to their text conversation, reading through the short messages about their dinner plans as well as a few memes they’d exchanged. His eyes lingered on the one he was meant to reply to, lips pursed and raw from being nibbled.

“ _wyd?_ ” he typed. Erased it. Typed it again and sent it.

Otabek: _I was waiting for you to text me. Now I’m texting you back. Now I’m sending it._

 _“cute,”_ Yuri punched into his phone’s keyboard. Erased it. He didn’t retype that one. It would have been weird. He sent, smirking: “ _meet me? not a date, just to be clear._ ”

Otabek: _Ah, good. I was confused._

Otabek: _Where?_

Yuri: _Remember that park with the creepy statue?_

Otabek: _Omw_.

Yuri knew he didn’t have long to change, so he just didn’t.

He slid an oversized hoodie over his ratty athleisure outfit that was at least ten years old. He also left his hair down; it was dirty and the shorter pieces around his face clung together, to his forehead in a way he knew was probably unattractive. He carded a hand through it, though he knew it would just make it worse in the long run. At least it wasn’t summer. In fact, it was a lot colder out than he thought it would be. He could see his apartment from the park and he wondered if he should just invite Bek inside when he got there—or maybe that would make things weird.

When he groaned, it echoed through the park. For fuck’s sake, Yuri was sick of overthinking shit. It was probably about the time he heard Bek’s motorcycle approach that he’d decided on what needed to be said.

“I want to start this off by making something perfectly clear: this isn’t an apology, but it definitely has apologetic undertones,” Yuri said before Bek had even sat next to him on the bench. A homeless person slept on the one adjacent, but there were only two in the small neighborhood park and Yuri figured since he was asleep it was still, for all intents and purposes, a private conversation.

“Okay.” Bek’s response was careful, prompting. If Yuri was a hot coal, Otabek wanted to coax him into a healthy flame.

“I probably could have said I didn’t want to go on a date without being a dick about it,” Yuri continued. He pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and shoved them in the large front pocket against an icy gust of wind. “Uh, without throwing something you already apologized for back in your face…or whatever.”

“No, I’m glad you told me. I didn’t mean to pressure you, it’s just—”

“Let me finish,” Yuri cut him off, shaking his head. He looked up at Bek and there was concern in his brown eyes. Was he afraid of being walked away from for a second time? The relationship they’d rekindled was a fragile thing; Yuri would be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified he’d accidentally squeeze it too tight and have watch it shatter all over again—and he’d thought about it a lot after their argument. Maybe Bek could have been better off, but Yuri wouldn’t have—and he’d always been a selfish creature. “I’m really pissed that things were just starting to become uncomplicated, then you did _that_. But I don’t want to hear another fucking apology. I’m sick of them.”

Yuri paused and pulled his knees to his chest on the bench to make himself small. No, to keep warm. He wasn’t going to let anyone make him feel small, especially not Bek. Especially not the curious eyes of their homeless company who’d been stirred around the time Yuri’s voice raised an octave. He wasn’t sure at what point that was, but it had probably happened to accentuate a cuss word.

“Instead, I was thinking we could just be honest with each other. Point blank say what we want. I mean, we did earlier, at work, but that was sort of—” Yuri ran his tongue over his bottom lip contemplatively. “—emotionally charged.” Now, his words were calm like the breeze that kissed their cheeks, leaving behind a red tint. Quietly, he finished, “At least for me.”

Bek stayed obediently quiet until Yuri blinked at him, clearly expecting a response. “That’s easy,” said the older of the two, and Yuri wanted to roll his eyes because it wasn’t easy for _him_ and he didn’t know how to tell Bek he suspected he was incapable of reciprocating any cheesy feelings. “I want to be close with you again. I want to hang out with you outside of Kimchi. I want to play music for you and see you shed everything that’s on your mind and just have fun. I really don’t care if we call it a date.”

“But it _would_ be a date if one of us has romantic expectations.”

Otabek shook his head, lifted a leg onto the bench and used the momentum to spin so he could look at Yuri’s face without craning his neck. “The only reason I called it a date was because you asked me to label it. I want to spend time with you, admire you both physically and mentally. I’m attracted to you, but I wasn’t asking you to be my, like, _boyfriend_. That word feels so childish.”

Yuri’s eyebrows drifted upward in surprise. It felt nice to hear Bek say he was attracted to him, he couldn’t lie, but it felt even better to know the expectations of their relationship were on a much more even level than he’d expected. He always hated the word ‘boyfriend’ too. He viewed it as something people had in high school. Something superfluous and toxic and superficial. “I don’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend. Or, uh, partner. The thought of abandoning everything I’ve worked for and falling in love and getting married and owning a ballet studio together makes me _sick_.”

Otabek snorted at the clear reference to Victor and Katsuki’s YA romance novel-esque relationship. “Tell me what you _do_ want, then.”

Their eyes met and there was fire, burning so hot it was blue. It was a mix of things: attraction, hope, heat, longing for companionship. Their relationship wasn’t as simple as friendship and it was by no means romantic love. It was something nestled comfortably in between on a spectrum only they could see. A cosmic collision of desire and mutual respect, their own big bang happening in the scant space between them.

“I want to be around you more,” Yuri began. He rested his cheek on his knees, facing his friend, and let his hair fall like a curtain around him. It really was way too long; maybe he’d consider getting it trimmed. Maybe wash it more, purchase some conditioner. He felt his face heat up, knowing the words he was about to speak could make things awkward, but he refused to break their eye contact. “Sometimes I want to make out with you, but I feel like it would change things and—I guess that kind of scares me.”

The pause that occurred almost made Yuri want to get up and walk back home. He’d laid out his heart so awkwardly; he figured the person pretending to be asleep on the opposite bench must have felt some serious secondhand embarrassment.

“Have you ever been involved with someone like that, Yuri?”

Yuri pressed his lips together and let his silence answer the question.

“It’s not as complicated as you’re expecting it to be,” Otabek said, and it sounded genuine. His tone was gentle and kind in a way Yuri had already gotten used to again.

His friend continued: “Having a physical relationship doesn’t have to change anything. The basis of sentient life is altruism: feeling good simply because you made someone else feel good. There’s a lot of pressure to be in a relationship with someone in our culture, but I never want you to feel like _I’m_ pressuring you. I don’t really put a lot of weight in things like kissing or even sex—not like I did when I was younger, before I decided to get a degree in this stuff. I wholeheartedly believe making a big deal out of romance feeds into heteronormativity and gender roles and virginity-worshipping and—”

Otabek took a breather; he seemed a little worked up. Though a couple words went over Yuri’s head, he could plainly see how important the topic was to his friend.

“—all those things are social constructs that our generation has been tasked with _de_ constructing.”

Yuri took a moment to consider his friend’s words. The swing set creaked somewhere behind them and the bare branches of trees shook against the force of the wind. The homeless person peered at them from under his hood. He felt a little less broken, that was for sure, for not wanting to pursue a partnership with the one person he’d ever met that could fit the role. If Otabek’s words were good for anything, it was that. He felt like his feelings—or lack thereof—were being validated by the one person whose opinion he might’ve sought.

“Oh,” he finally said, because their conversation was more about sex than romance. Sure, Yuri had googled things about sex, walked out on conversations about it with Victor or Katsuki. And of course he’d been exposed to plenty of porn—he was no stranger to the idea. So why did he feel so clammed up when someone he was intensely attracted to was sitting next to him, willingly opening up about it? In his entire repertoire, no words seemed to fit between his lips.

“All that is to say: I want to explore our platonic relationship on a physical level,” Otabek said when Yuri didn’t continue. “If you’re cool with that.”

“That’s gotta be the worst way anyone’s ever said they want be friends with benefits.” Despite his words, Yuri was grateful for the clarity and he showed it with a very rare gentle smile. Bek really was the height of chivalry, and it showed in the polite space between their bodies even though the conversation’s direction was a little more than uncouth.

A breeze blew Otabek’s hair into his eyes, and when he reached up to move it behind his ear, Yuri took the opportunity to scoot closer. He let their bodies zip together from where his head rested on Bek’s shoulder down to their knees. Otabek’s raised hand fell to Yuri’s upper arm and squeezed, showing his approval.

And maybe it wasn’t so cold, sitting together under the city smog.

_xyz_

Working together after that could have been awkward. And Yuri, bless his defense mechanisms, really did try to go down with the ship. Otabek and Sara had opened the café together that morning; Yuri sauntered in at ten A.M. for a short shift to learn how to use the register. The late hour was to allow for the brunt of the pre-work-and-school rush to pass.

“Good morning,” Otabek greeted him as soon as he stepped behind the counter. His voice was too chipper—he’d been up and caffeinated for hours. Yuri had not. “How did you sleep?”

Yuri very decidedly looked at the floor while he ran his palms over the stiff creases in the new fabric of his apron. He could feel the heat of his face flushing red, flashes of their private conversation between his ears. He felt his defenses rise with the blood, flood his brain. He was going to say something stupid.

“How did _you_ sleep?” Fuck. that sounded confrontational. The night before had been a lovely one; starting with their positive conversation in the park, then ending with their parting hug. It was a hard-earned peace treaty, a promise that every awkward moment they’d endured had led to a win for both parties.

Sara spit the coffee she was drinking back into the round latte mug and covered her mouth with her free hand to muffle the unattractive snort that came out. “Yuri, what the hell?” Her words shook with un-canned laughter. “Why are you always @’ing Bek? I can’t deal with you.”

Yuri decided to hazard a glance between his coworkers. Sara was wiping a spot of her beverage from the corner of her mouth, her eyes glittering with mirth. Otabek’s head was tilted, cautious, but his features had settled into something curious. His eyes were lazily narrowed, half his mouth raised in a smirk directed right at Yuri. He looked almost amused, but there was a hint of question—and of course there was.

Yuri had spoken with too much cluttered emotion, letting his mouth take the reins instead of his brain. He let his lips part in a smile he hoped looked diplomatic. “Sorry—I don’t know why I said that.”

And Otabek immediately forgave him. Unfortunately, that experience had only served as foreshadowing of Yuri’s horrible people skills, set to be showcased later in their shift together:

“That’s, like, a _lot_ ,” Yuri told a man who’d asked for eight pumps of cane sugar in his twelve-ounce latte. “You’re going to get diabetes.”

And when someone asked for a blended latte: “That’s just not a thing. And we don’t have a blender, so you’re two for two, buddy.”

“Did you even read the menu?” That was when a second person wanted a Frappuccino.

Someone had asked for something like a vanilla latte from Dunkin’: “You mean…a vanilla latte?”

Otabek, clearly mortified by every word leaving Yuri’s mouth, took him aside after the line was depleted. “Hey, why are you talking to the customers like that?”

Sara, hearing the introduction to that conversation, took the chance to excuse herself for her lunch break. Yuri set his hips, crossed his arms. He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“You’re being kind of—” Otabek put a contemplative fist to his mouth, muffling the rest of his statement. “Terse.”

“I’m not being _terse_ ,” Yuri snapped.

“Yuri,” Otabek breathed, his voice sounding like Potya’s gentle purr, an octave lower than usual. “That was terse.”

Yuri felt his by-then scowl relax a degree. Otabek wouldn’t say something like that just to piss him off, so he decided to give the conversation more than a grain of salt. (Maybe it was worthy of two.) “I’m trying to help them. Imagine going through life as a total tool and just, like, nobody ever tells you?”

“They aren’t tools. They’re just people who enjoy coffee but don’t know everything about it. And that’s fine. They don’t need to.” Otabek explained. “That’s why we’re here. It’s kind of like a filter. They tell you what they want, and then you translate it into barista language to ring it in. Like, without correcting them out loud, you know?”

“Yeah—I’m not very good at filtering myself.”

“And that’s one of my very favorite things about you. Look at this.” Bek pinched Yuri’s sleeve to lead him over to the tablet that served as their order screen. It also controlled the music in the café. Otabek opened the music app, and it displayed several playlists to choose from. The one that had been going that morning: _unsweetened americano with sugar free sweetener_ by _baristabek_. They were all by an account called _baristabek._

Yuri’s grin became impossibly toothy as he scrolled through the list. _For here but in a to-go cup, i wanted that iced, cold brew but hot, please leave room at the top of the cup, shot of expresso._ His eyes trailed to the last one, which turned his expression to confusion.

“What’s _get out of my swamp_?” When he pointed to it, he accidentally selected it, and some [familiar chords](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ay_BkRuv-o) came over the speakers.

“It’s the Shrek soundtrack,” Otabek snickered. He quickly changed the playlist back to one he’d probably spent hours curating, regardless of the silly naming technique. He leaned closer to Yuri to avoid any customers hearing his next words: “We play it when we want people to leave.”

“That’s evil.”

“But effective. I’ll show you when we close next week.”

Right—their first full shifts together were coming up. Yuri might have been anxious about it until approximately two seconds after Otabek grabbed his sleeve and tugged him over to the tablet. It felt incredibly natural, standing so close, connecting with one another. Like they’d never argued, never been anything other than a casual _‘we’_.

“Anyway, you can make fun of the customers, but you have to be smart about it. Vent to your coworkers,” Bek said. “We’re a team now.”

Yuri swallowed, catching Otabek’s meaningful gaze. It felt hot and loaded and maybe a little flirtatious. He felt relieved or maybe disappointed when a young, feminine-presenting person walked into the café, and the little bell on the door drew both men’s attention toward her. She tucked a strand of dyed pink hair behind her ear and smiled at them as she approached the counter. Yuri had returned to his post at the register, and Otabek stood nearby at the espresso machine, ready to start her order on a dime.

“Welcome in,” Otabek greeted her when Yuri didn’t. The baristas exchanged glances, and Yuri’s contained a silent apology. He kept forgetting that policy was to greet everyone who walked through the door. It felt weird to project his voice across the quiet lobby, over the gentle music that bred such a peaceful atmosphere.

The young woman looked at Otabek, then averted her eyes a little too quickly. Yuri noticed it, and he also noticed how she was awkward about meeting his own gaze, too. When she spoke, it was with a sheepish smile. “Um, hi. Can I get a small caramel macchiato?”

Her eyes flickered up. She looked at him through the mascara coating her eyelashes.

“No.” Yuri replied immediately. She’d butchered the pronunciation of the word at the second syllable, saying ‘ _she’_ rather than ‘ _key’_. “You can only order things you can pronounce.”

Her eyebrows were raised comically high, shocked by his words. She blinked very rapidly. Then her mood changed completely. She pointedly pushed up her clear-framed glasses and leaned forward over the counter. “Huh? That was mean. Do you insult _all_ your customers?”

Yuri glanced at Otabek. The girl hadn’t noticed the subtle smirk on Yuri’s face—the giveaway that he was _just fucking kidding_. Otabek was inhaling to intervene, but Yuri beat him to it:

“No, just the ones who kind of deserve it.” Surely, she’d notice on the second go ‘round.

She did not. “Your attitude isn’t very attractive.”

“Who ever said I was trying to attract you?” Yuri teased back, really laying it on thick with the smirk. Maybe he’d started looking a little toothy, a little condescending. And by maybe he meant definitely.

The young woman set her jaw and talked with her hands matter-of-factly. “You’re _literally_ trying to sell me something.”

“Actually, you came in here of your own accord.” Yuri, as previously mentioned, did not believe in any god or gods. However, he did believe that good people deserved good things to happen to them, damn it. She would catch on any minute. For sure.

“And now I’m leaving _of my own accord_.” She turned away from him and started a purposeful gait toward the door. He thought the whole thing was a little dramatic, really. (Like he was one to talk.)

“Wait,” Yuri intervened, bowing his head in the name of The Holy Spirit of Customer Service. He reached over the counter as if to grab her arm, but the space between them was too great. His hand hovered there, awkwardly. He really didn’t want to apologize to some random woman in the name of the café, but he didn’t know how to mend the situation otherwise—especially when his words kept tumbling out, kept making it worse.

“It’s pronounced mach-ee-ah-toe—"

She huffed, took another step toward the door.

“—And I was trying to make a joke, but it came out like shit.” He spoke candidly to her back, to the long pink tresses that were curled between her shoulder blades. He noticed that she was, objectively, kind of cute. “Will you let me make you a drink anyway? I’ll buy it. For being a dick.”

When she turned, she was smiling again, but less sheepish and more satisfied. “I guess that’d be okay.”

“Here. Take it.”

Otabek had already started the drink as she was ordering it (and he was the one who slid it across the bar in their general direction as a silent piece of advice), so Yuri snatched it up and held it out over the counter. The woman took it in both her hands and brought it to her lips to taste. A small dot of foam stuck to her top lip, and she licked it off before she smiled and shifted on her feet. Yuri expected her to turn and walk away again, perhaps with less theatrics since she’d received something for free—but she didn’t.

Instead, her brown eyes were set on him, head tilted to the side. She twirled one curl around her finger. “What’s your, um, name?”

Celestino didn’t believe in name tags. He’d said during their brief interview that they soiled the idea of human connection—which was, in the owner’s eyes, the most important aspect of a coffee shop. The vibe was set perfectly: bright lighting, open space created with high ceilings and minimal furniture, an electric fireplace surrounded by upholstered chairs and a coffee table with a stack of books about brew methods, growing regions and the like. The whole lobby was designed to create an inviting atmosphere that birthed quiet intimacy. People were meant to fall in love with sly glances over the rim of their mug or meet old friends to catch up.

Yuri figured that was a giant crock of shit. In the moment where _he_ was meant to connect with someone, he felt like he’d never met anyone new in his whole life. He looked to Otabek for assistance and God knew why. She’d only asked for his name, after all.

“It’s Yuri,” he said, throat dry and cracking, growing cactuses. “Yuri Plisetsky.” Because his last name was a crucial piece of information, sure. Why not? He cursed himself for being so irreparably clumsy with the art of language.

“Oh, cool,” she said. She shifted awkwardly and slipped the cardboard sleeve off her beverage. “I’m Anna. Can I borrow your Sharpie?”

Yuri looked at Otabek again, and the asshole was grinning. He was feeling a healthy, rounded scoop of amusement, according to his expression. At least one of them was enjoying the interaction.

Though Yuri was pretty sure he knew what was next, he handed her his marker. Sure enough, she wrote down her phone number and slid both the marker and the sleeve across the counter. She was blushing a deep, hard crimson and he almost admired her courage. He’d never given out his phone number, but not for lack of wanting. If anything, she was braver than him. It was with that sentiment that he picked up the items, folded the sleeve and slipped it into the pocket of his apron. He wouldn’t text her, but he wasn’t going to be rude to someone with such shining brass balls.

They waited until she left the café to discuss the clusterfuck of a sale.

“Okay, that was problematic in about a million ways, but—and I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” Otabek said between his face-splitting, shitty grin. “That was really cute.”

Yuri scowled at him, ignoring how the use of the word cute to describe him made him feel a little nauseous, but in a good way. “I don’t want to hear it. You were unequivocally right. I’ll be nothing but nice to every single one of these fuckers from now until forever.”

“Good. If you’re fake nice all the time, real nice sometimes won’t mean as much to them.” Bek emptied the portafilter into the knock box and rinsed it idly under the machine’s hot water tap. “Are you going to call her?”

“Hell no.”

“Not even to tell her you’re not interested? That’s cold.” The comment earned Otabek a swift smack to his bicep while he searched for a semi-clean towel to wipe down the counter in front of the espresso machine.

“I think she’ll get the idea,” Yuri grumbled. He felt his feet shuffle, restless with unspoken words. He’d had success with speaking his mind thus far, so he took the leap. “Wouldn’t you be, like, jealous? Even though I think girls are gross and I for sure only like dick.”

Yuri ignored the curious glances from a duo of customers sitting at a table in the lobby. He made a mental note to speak more quietly about his sexual preferences.

“Why would I be?” Otabek cut himself off, tossing his towel over his shoulder and turning to face Yuri. “I’m not your keeper. You can do whatever you want.”

And Yuri grinned—he liked the sound of that. He and Otabek had always had an understanding dynamic. They had been, at one point, cohesive and bonded like _papier-mâché_. They went to bed at the same time, ate together, went to the same classes at the studio. When they were teenagers, they talked about everything: God, aliens, sexuality, politics. It seemed like all their relationship needed was another thin layer of glue and some time to dry.

Yuri threw out the girl’s phone number the first chance he got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna get raw here: Yuri's feelings are based off my own confusion about romance and I'm extremely nervous this didn't make any sense. It never makes sense to my friends when I try to explain it. Alloromantics: how do you feel? Do I need to make some edits to clarify anything? Please lend me your world-lens. :)


	5. we don't believe what's on tv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I need to know that when I fail you’ll still be here_   
>  _‘Cause if you stick around I’ll sing you pretty sounds_   
>  _And we’ll make money selling your hair_   
>  _I don’t care what’s in your hair_   
>  _I just want to know what’s on your mind._
> 
> [We Don't Believe What's On TV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZEumf7RowI) / twenty one pilots
> 
> (This fic has a Spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xJpYx4iEoZ5lrrop5ZOxF?si=f7iC5_oPS46tgE9EzzejBA).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No TW because this is 7k words of fluff and bonding. And please watch my phrasing in this chapter! Remember that romantic attraction and sexual attraction are two peas in a pod, sure, but they aren't the same thing. This isn't going to be a love story, but it does have a happy ending for our sweet boys.

When one pictures the process of organizing a political rally, the image conjured is typically exciting and adventurous. One might remember the things that had previously made history: throwing coins and beer cans at cops inside the Stonewall Inn, cars set on fire during the White Night riots. The actions that provoke, inspire, demand change and tolerance. In reality, it was a lot of networking and tedious intern-work. For example, printing and hanging posters around campus was the first preparatory task Yuri took part in. 

Otabek met him at the library after both their classes had finished for the day. It was certainly a quiet place to get work done, albeit one with grandiose vaulted ceilings and spiral staircases that led to lofted levels for different genre and areas of study. It felt like their entire tuition had gone toward making the place as over-the-top as possible.

Yuri and Otabek kept to the first floor where the computers were. Bek designed a decent enough poster using a template he found online and was sure to ask Yuri’s opinion multiple times during the short process. The background they chose for the flier mimicked the striped rainbow pattern Yuri had painted on Victor’s awning. In white lettering, big and proud, said the date and time of the march and where it would begin. There was an email to send questions to, one Yuri didn’t recognize. He asked about it after the print order had been sent through.

“Dr. Okukawa is one of my professors,” Bek answered, approaching the counter to collect the final product of their hard work. “People often equate youth with unintelligence. Having a professor as the point of contact makes the event look more put-together.”

Yuri was going to respond, but their conversation was cut off by the person working at the desk.

“You’re really not supposed to print this much at once, you know,” she said, pointing to a sign hanging above the shared machinery. It listed a page limit in bold lettering, which they had well exceeded. From her place at the counter that separated the students from the equipment, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. She shook her head, disappointed, when she spoke. “Especially not in color. Do you think your personal endeavors are more important than the rules put in place by the leaders of this highly-accredited institution?”

Then she grinned, toothy and teasing—and Yuri realized he had just met one of Otabek’s friends.

“Afternoon, Mila.” Bek’s smile was gentle warmth, a ray of sunlight directed at the young woman. He leaned on the counter with one elbow in a smooth movement. While motioning to Yuri with his free hand, his speech switched to that heavily accented Russian. “This is Yuri Plisetsky. He’s helping me get a few things ready for the march.”

Her smile got bigger, more excited. Yuri inspected her bright red hair, dyed poorly and probably in someone’s bathroom. Her roots were two inches long and they were chestnut brown. She wore a little makeup around her eyes. It was smudged. She held her hand out for Yuri to shake and when he did, she addressed him in a mix of rapid-fire Russian and English: “I’m Mila Babicheva, pronouns are she/her/ya bitch. Are you first generation in the States?”

“Second,” Yuri replied. And then he thought about it. It was appropriate to label his parents as an afterthought. “Third, technically. My grandfather moved us here before I was born.”

“You’ve never seen Russia, then?” she said, leaning into the palm of her hand. She looked up at Yuri with interest in her eyes, maybe a little too much. “What a shame. St. Petersburg is the most beautiful city in the world.”

Yuri didn’t particularly want to talk about Russia or the fact that his grandfather had kicked it before they could visit together. He looked up at Otabek and quietly bumped their shoulders together as a plea for help. Mila’s eyes followed the interaction, but she didn’t comment on it.

“She’ll talk about her home for hours if you let her. I guess we all would if the memories were fond enough,” said Bek. He was fiddling with his phone when he changed the subject, honoring the silent request from his friend. “I just airdropped this flier to you. Can you print more for me after we leave? I think we could get away with keeping a stack here on the counter.”

“Sure, you can, but you’re going to get _me_ fired,” she pouted. When she stood to gather the papers from the printer, Yuri was surprised to see she was at least a head taller than either of them. She shot them a beaming expression over her slender shoulder. “At least it’s for a good cause.”

“Damn right it is.” Bek took their fliers and placed them carefully in his messenger-style laptop case. He jerked his thumb toward Yuri and the younger student hid the way his stomach dropped beneath a scowl. “Oh, by the way—did you realize you’re standing in the presence of the spearhead of this whole thing?”

Then Yuri smirked, expecting for Otabek to start laughing to make his joke land more effectively. He didn’t. In fact, Bek was so serious his expression had evened into a stoic frown. Mila had turned to fully face Yuri, staring with her pink-glossed mouth agape.

“You’re the one who made that post? The awning at the ballet studio?” she asked, clutching her hands to her chest. Yuri noticed the implicit grace in her movements, her slim but strong frame and he wondered if she was a dancer or gymnast. He wondered if he could use that question to immediately change the subject.

“I’m not spearheading shit except Bek for putting me on the spot,” Yuri said instead, avoiding eye contact with his company at all costs.

Though Mila laughed and went on to lead a mildly pleasant conversation over the next few minutes (she mentioned how she liked his attitude and they exchanged Snapchats, only partially against Yuri’s will), he was grateful when Bek said goodbye and turned to end the interaction. Yuri shuffled behind his friend, waving awkwardly at Mila when she called out a farewell in heavy Russian.

“Yo, that was rat shit,” Yuri said once they were outside. “Not cool at all.” His voice was a childish grumble, eyebrows sunken toward each other so deeply it was almost comical. The temperate weather was a stark contrast to the cloud of doom surrounding him. Yuri loved standing out—but only when he planned on it, when his moves were choreographed. Not when he had to react in the heat of the moment.

Otabek tilted his chin down to meet Yuri’s eyes over the rim of the sunglasses he’d donned upon exiting the building. Birds sang around them, because the campus was beautiful, and it was finally a little warm outside in the afternoon. The sun streaked through the trees in a way Yuri had only seen in RPGs. And—speaking of aesthetically pleasing things: it was _unfair_ how those shades accented Bek’s perfect bone structure, how he pushed them up when the slid down his nose a little too far. How they hid his eyes and whispered of danger and secrets. For the millionth time, he was forced to see his friend’s physical form as something he was intensely attracted to.

He wasn’t sure if he should be jealous of Bek’s evolutionary advantages or aroused by them.

“I don’t really care about being cool,” Bek said, and Yuri wondered if that’s what it meant to be truly cool. “Mila is a friend from my program who’s helping out with the march. She knows what she needs to know about me.” His little grin was sly. “I wanted her to know how cool _you_ are.”

Yuri was a thousand percent sure the face he made in response was the opposite; it was an open-mouthed mix between disgust and bewilderment. He stopped in his tracks and his shoes made an unattractive scraping noise against the pebbled cement. Bek thought _he_ was cool? Yuri: the guy who ignored him for four years over a misunderstanding, chose to be obstinate at least half the time just because he didn’t know how else to react, talked at a much higher volume than necessary, whose Instagram was almost entirely pictures of him snuggling his overweight cat…

Yuri had thoughts on that: “Bad-boy Beka is a closet sap and a huge dork.”

He said the words in Russian because it just felt right. He started to walk again, passing by his friend and feeling their shoulders graze—then there was pressure around his wrist. He was forced to stop walking or pull away and he chose to stop. Yuri turned to face Bek, and he was smiling something fierce. Bigger than Yuri had ever seen.

Otabek laughed a little, an airy sound through his nose, and Yuri realized he loved seeing his friend genuinely happy. The realization was astronomical, a huge ball of mass with its own gravitational pull, so the sidewalk suddenly cracked and fell away around them. They were floating in limbo, not a soul around to intrude. Their hands had found each other, cupping at the palms and Yuri’s were sweaty. He swallowed; a chunk of grass floated past his head, the roots still clumped together with wet dirt. The section of dislodged sidewalk they stood on shifted like the deck of a boat. He felt his stomach tie up in knots. Which way’s up? He was going to hurl. Yuri wondered why people actively sought the feeling if what he was experiencing was a crush; it was awfully uncomfortable.

“The Hooks building isn’t too far,” Bek said, his words echoing through the emptiness of space. He was standing in front of Yuri and tugging on his hand to lead the way. “Is it alright if we walk like this?”

Upon hearing his friend’s voice, the ground solidified and the birds continued their songs. Yuri felt comfortable being led in the direction of the building where Bek took his classes. They held hands the entire way, after he nodded his consent because his voice had been sucked into a vacuous black hole somewhere deep in the cosmos. He knew he should have been embarrassed by the public physical contact—but it was Bek, and that made it easier. Confident, understanding, total-slut-for-consent Bek.

Yuri knew the gesture, even one so public, didn’t have any strings he’d later need to haphazardly, desperately try to sever with little more than safety scissors. Or maybe his teeth.

“This building—it’s small and really unimpressive. It also kind of smells.” Bek opened the door and held it for the both of them. The air conditioning blew Yuri’s hair back and felt too cold on his sun-flushed cheeks. When he entered the building, he realized the hallway was smaller than he was used to and they were alone and standing so _close._ Yuri averted his eyes and crossed his arms as if to shield himself; a Freudian slip that Bek definitely caught—right in the crook of his elbow, ever the gentleman.

“You’re right,” Yuri said, inspecting the peeling wallpaper around the crown molding. “It does smell. Your building sucks. This is homophobic.”

“A structure doesn’t define a space, people do.” Bek smiled that stupid smile that had shattered the world minutes prior, and he motioned for Yuri to follow him around a corner. “Come on—our community board’s back here.”

The hallway seemed to get smaller as he walked—and that wasn’t just his imagination. It was an old building, only one floor and with very few rooms. The rest of the campus was of a more modern design, filled with expensive art and good lighting. The Hooks building was a dive bar in comparison, enclosed by the tragic combination of floral wallpaper and waist-high wood paneling. The hardwood floors were faded and scratched in a predictable pattern where shoes had tread for many generations. Some of the room numbers were scribbled on the doors with a pallet marker rather than engraved on a mounted placard. It smelled like damp furniture or something else one might find beside a dumpster.

The lightbulb above the community board was out and there were no windows in sight. Bek hung their poster anyway, one of many rainbow-themed designs in the mix. “We all check this thing every day,” he assured Yuri. “They’ll see it.”

Yuri nodded, though he hadn’t been worried. A bunch of grad students who chose to study gender and sexuality? They’d surely be at a pride march, probably with green hair and edgy piercings, clothed ever-ambiguously. He felt his lips make a warm smile, though he hadn’t told them to.

“Hey, I want to show you something,” Bek ventured, and he leaned in a little, gave Yuri a look that seemed to be asking permission.

Yuri nodded. Whatever it was, yes. He wanted it to happen so long as his company didn’t change—and that was a new feeling for him.

Soon, they were in the building’s common room. It looked more like a high school teachers’ lounge, with one conference table whose chairs didn’t match. There was a vending machine that was out of everything except nuts and unfrosted Pop-Tarts. Lining the back wall, a countertop with a Keurig and microwave (a sticker on the glass door read: _feminism ain’t shit unless it’s intersectional_ ). Next to the door hung a large corkboard covered in art, [memes](https://imgur.com/BswRp6w), magazine prints and newspaper articles. Yuri realized then that the department had to have been a close-knit group; his own building’s common room was not so personalized. It was bigger and colder and smelled of people he’d never meet, of something nearly clinical.

“When the gender studies program took this building, the new dean let them choose the namesake.” Bek had situated himself in front of the corkboard. He planted his index finger on a piece of art held up by a bronze thumbtack. It was a painting of a black [woman](https://imgur.com/oo3taYQ) speaking and gesturing emphatically. “This person is who we chose: Bell Hooks—well, that’s her penname. She writes books about love, feminism, race, capitalism, oppression. Books about how all those things are connected and how we can fight them. She’s, like, the Betty White of woke people. So pure, we have to protect her at all costs.”

He took a deep breath, dragged his finger to another piece. It was a pencil sketch of a bald, middle-aged white [man](https://imgur.com/QsjP20p), smiling big and leaning into his palm. “This person is Michel Foucault. He studied history, sexuality, identity. Lots of stuff. Power dynamics, too. He proposed the idea—and I’m paraphrasing here—that we force ourselves and each other into a box with our own expectations of normality. It makes us like sheep, easier to be herded by the powers that be.”

The next piece Bek focused on was a printed photo of a [woman](https://imgur.com/IodJcB0) with short hair and beaded earrings that dangled to her shoulders. A quote was pinned to it: _They’d like to think I have melted in the pot. But I haven’t. We haven’t._ “This is Gloria Anzaldúa. She was a cultural and queer theorist. She was born poor with little opportunity for education, but she fought her way into academia because she needed her voice to be heard—fuck, we needed to hear it. She’s dead now, but her writing is landmark and it’ll be studied in the future like we study the Greeks.”

Otabek explained several of the pieces on the corkboard, verbally detailing the achievements of people Yuri had never heard of. Finally, his finger landed on a charcoal sketch of someone in a [pointe pose](https://imgur.com/g329Fim) he recognized well; balanced on a single big toe—and oh, he felt phantom pains from that—with one leg raised above their head, held in place by a strong arm. The other arm reached forward, probably asking for a glass of water because that pose was _tough_.

His eyes skimmed over it, then he noticed some cursive words in the bottom right corner: _We’ve never been better, fuckers._ They were his own words; ones he’d posted to Instagram, and he noticed quickly after that the ballerina was male, with hair that was chopped off at his chin, held up halfway by a braid. It was Yuri, as a teenager, in a pose featured in one of his older posts.

“Someone in one of my classes thought your post was rad, so she went through your Instagram. She said she was struck by your beauty—and your bravery, your strength. She wanted to draw you and place you here with all these other amazing people.” Bek paused and his eyes glimmered with intensity. “Yuri, don’t you get that you’re _incredible_?” he said, placing the back of his hand on the corner of the picture and giving it a loving caress, careful to avoid smearing the charcoal. “And not just because of what you did for Victor and the other Yuuri. Remember the day we met?”

“Don’t be dumb,” Yuri grumbled. “Of course I do.” He looked up at his friend through oily bangs. The feeling of something caught in his throat made his voice sound hoarse. In truth, he felt much the opposite of Bek’s words, of the sketch. After all, his grace only existed when it was carefully choreographed and performed on a stage. He only knew how to be that person when someone else was pulling the strings.

“Not like I remember it, I bet.” Bek raised his eyebrows, averted his eyes for a brief moment before his head was tilted in Yuri’s direction again. They were standing close, sharing warmth in a room meant for sharing things. “My moms forced me to go to that studio. I wanted to take hip-hop or contemporary classes, not _classical ballet_.” The expression Bek made was twisted humorously with the revulsion his younger self had surely felt toward the art. “But then I saw you doing splits like you were boneless and suddenly ballet seemed a lot cooler. Seriously, watching you dance is like witnessing some historic battle. Like, um, history isn’t my thing but the one with the 300 soldiers, maybe? Has anyone ever told you that?”

Yuri ignored the question. Of course he’d been told things like that (usually in fewer words), but never by someone whose opinion actually mattered like Bek’s did. And, though part of him knew Otabek’s interest was never fully invested in ballet, he hadn’t suspected what his friend seemed to be hinting at: “You stayed even though you never wanted to do it and you sucked at it—because of _me_?”

“Sure did. It was your eyes. That serious look, like you were getting drafted, not tiptoeing around to _Fur Elise_.”

Yuri wasn’t sure if he was being complimented or made fun of; except he knew he was being complimented. He just didn’t know how to respond to that, so he pretended it was the latter instead. His throat hurt when he spoke, emotion undeniably welling. “Fuck you. That one was really hard back then.”

“And you nailed it every time, even though you always said it wasn’t _perfect_ —whatever the hell that means.” Bek had moved closer, pressing Yuri against the corkboard with his eyes but not his body. “I just want you to see yourself the way I see you, just for this one minute.” A hand was reaching for his jaw but hesitated in the neutral space between them.

Bek’s lips were parted; maybe a threat, maybe a promise. “Would you mind if I ki—?”

Yuri cut him off with a kiss. He’d grabbed the front of Otabek’s shirt and pulled him in. Their noses bumped a little, but the correction was quick enough for Yuri to make before he chickened out. In an instant, his movements were reciprocated. It was gentle at first. A soft, slow movement with a minimal amount of wetness. Yuri moved his jaw a little, lifted his chin to show enthusiasm, gratitude. To show he was enjoying himself and their comfortable in-between of flirting and friendship. To tell Bek how much he was appreciated without having to force out the yarn ball of words his throat had spun. A hairball of complicated emotions he didn’t know how to verbalize in either language.

Yuri still used his tongue; just in a more creative way.

And, fuck, tongues—Bek was licking his, and the gentle, almost tickling sensation elicited an embarrassing moan from him. Yuri couldn’t have held it back; not with Bek pressing him gently against the wall, one hand on his waist and the other traveling across his chest. Bek’s hand paused right over his nipple, curiously feeling the area through his layered clothing a second time with the pad of his thumb. Yuri’s body reacted strongly, shivering and releasing a shaky breath from his nose. Unfortunately, their lips separated.

“Do you—do you have your nipples pierced?” Otabek whispered the words against his mouth, sultry and enticing.

Yuri swallowed, gently cleared his throat with a bowed head. He was blushing. Maybe from the kissing, maybe from the question. He heard himself chuckle and it sounded awkward. “I got them done when I quit ballet. Kind of as a fuck you to being told what to do with my body. They’re healed—touch them if you want.”

“Fuck, that’s hot. I love insubordination,” Otabek breathed, lightly squeezing Yuri’s waist with the hand that rested there. The other one lingered above his nipple, and Yuri wanted sexual contact more than he’d ever wanted it before. The piercing studio wasn’t lying about the metal bars increasing his sensitivity.

“Then stop talking.” Yuri wrapped a hand around the back of Otabek’s neck, urging him closer. Their height was even, so he looked through his lashes instead of tilting his chin upward to express desire. “Kiss me more.”

Bek’s eyes were alive with want, and Yuri found comfort in knowing he wasn’t the only one who’d been pining. A caramel hand slid under the hem of his shirt, grazing the sensitive skin of his lower belly and coaxing a small whimper. Their lips finally met again, heat and spit and there was at least one begging nibble on his bottom lip before the door opened.

“Ah—this is not an appropriate common room activity, but I’ll pretend I didn’t see it if you guys promise to lock the door next time,” came a feminine voice much too close to Yuri’s ear. He felt Otabek’s hand sneak from beneath his clothing, having not reached any further than his belly button. Yuri glared with burning frustration at the woman as she continued talking, unprovoked.

“Actually, promise me you’ll use protection if things head in that direction.” Her thumb was placed to her lip in thought, gaze set to the corner of the room, but not out of embarrassment. “I suppose that was the more responsible thing to say in this situation.”

“Dr. Okukawa, nice to see you.” Otabek’s greeting was way too casual, like he’d never run into a professor in a more natural way. He stepped away from Yuri, leaving him feeling too exposed in the room—especially when a gasp ripped through the air, shot him right through the forehead. A line of hot blood dribbled down between his eyes.

“You’re yuri-plié-sky—from Instagram. The Yuri Plisetsky all my students keep tweeting about. Bek—I had no idea you were _this_ close with such a local star. Go on, introduce me!” The professor was in Yuri’s personal space now, and he was grateful for his flexible back that allowed him to sink away from the intrusion without discomfort. If he’d been hard before, that was long gone.

Otabek was _laughing_ , the dirty traitor. “This is Dr. Okukawa, but she’s about to yell at me to tell you to refer to her as Minako, because it creates a more peer-oriented learning environment that pairs well with her discussion-based lecturing style.”

“Thank you, yes,” she said. “Nail on the head, Bek. Yuri, it’s lovely to meet you. Bek’s told me a little about you, excluding this most recent development of course—but _including_ that you’re helping out with the march…right?”

Yuri nodded. “We’re hanging posters Bek made right now.” He didn’t mean for that to sound as much like a lie as it did. The professor spoke so quickly, it was impossible to adequately respond to everything flying out of her mouth. He bitterly wondered how that fared in a _peer-oriented learning environment_.

“Right.” Minako smirked. “Hanging posters. A very physical, hands-on task. I guess I should leave you folks to it, then. I only came in here to see if they restocked the vending machine—and of course not. We’re not part of the college of _medicine_ , that’s for sure.”

The sound of her voice trailed off as she receded back into whatever layer of hell she’d popped her head out of, saying something about how the water fountain water was uncomfortably lukewarm and _someone should fix that_.

“Wow, she’s…” Yuri let the rest of his sentence plop to the tile between their feet.

“She’s amazing,” Bek finished for him. Yeah—that wasn’t Yuri’s first choice of adjectives. “She’s a really cool person, I swear. And she’s the professor I told you about who’s in charge of overseeing the march.”

“Weird. I thought I heard you say you wanted it to seem put-together.”

“She _is_ put-together. She was just excited to meet you and—” Bek grinned. “—I doubt she was expecting us to be making out in here.”

Yuri looked down at his feet.

“Aw, Yuri, no,” Otabek sighed, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. A thumb grazed his neck and it felt intimate, threatening, exhilarating. He leaned into it. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s nothing to feel weird about, I swear. Look, I’ll make a really dumb face and you’ll laugh at me. Would that help?”

Yuri shook his head and looked up, feeling like a teenager again. Feeling short and small and thin like he could be folded up and forgotten about. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before.”

Bek looked shocked. He didn’t make a dumb face. Instead, he just said something incredibly so. “Are—are you sure?”

Yuri nodded at the ridiculous response, though he felt it was wasted since he wouldn’t lie about something like that—especially not to Otabek. He decided to reply with sarcasm, on brand if nothing else. “No, I’m secretly a social butterfly who flutters around making friends and kissing men. You know, when I’m not at work, writing papers, in class, giving Potya all the attention she could ever want or need, hanging out with my dense childhood best friend…”

“Your dense childhood best friend is requesting an upgrade to dense adult best friend.” Bek was grinning and his teeth were endearingly crooked. He laced his arm around Yuri’s shoulders and pulled him close. He smelled nice, natural and smoky like a crystal shop.

“Oh, this is awkward—I have some other interviews lined up for that position,” Yuri teased, ever grateful that he could once again do so with Otabek without worrying about the other taking it the wrong way. Time sped up when rekindling relationships that were never meant to be broken, it seemed. “I’ll give you a call early next week with my answer.”

But the answer—that was in his eyes, and he let the message convey itself nonverbally as he craned his neck to look at his friend. It was a message in a bottle, and he knew Bek got it when he squeezed Yuri’s shoulder before leading the way to the next building in need of a flier.

_xyz_

“I just don’t understand how my hearts are _perfect_ , but my [tulips](https://imgur.com/O9MXPTs)— _my stacked goddamn hearts_ —look like [seaweed](https://imgur.com/FbeXehn). Or a cactus. Or just—vegetation isn’t the _goal_ , damn it.”

Yuri’s hands were shaking with frustration as the dumped the latte he’d just made down the sink. It splashed back onto the counter, but he labeled that as a cleaning project for later. He was far too agitated for frivolous concerns like housekeeping. He rinsed out the mug and went right back to the espresso machine, already reaching for the shot Otabek had pulled for him to use next.

“Yuri. Wait,” Otabek grabbed his wrist and guided Yuri’s hand to eye level. “You’re trembling.” And he was. “You’re too tense. You won’t pour anything like this.”

“Yeah?” Yuri twisted his hand away, wrenching out of Bek’s grip so he could ready his milk pitcher. He didn’t much like being told what to do. “Watch me.”

The hiss of rapidly heating milk filled the café. Otabek set his mouth, visibly frustrated but unwilling to pick a fight with Yuri when he was on one of his stubborn streaks. Yuri felt charcoal eyes on him while he overaerated to the tune of a sharp screech from the steam wand, then accidentally burned himself on the pitcher due to the concentration of heat against the side when he overcorrected the initial mistake. When the liquid reached the right temperature, Yuri poured the top layer of foam down the drain to even out the heavy texture he’d created. It didn’t matter—he still dumped a fat blob of a design in the mug.

“You fucked yourself,” Otabek pointed out, and his words echoed through the empty café. “You over—”

“Fuck, I know. I fucking know.” Yuri abandoned the bar, taking his long hair out of its ponytail to run his hands through it and tug on the length. He was grateful for the empty lobby and the slow afternoon, perfect for practicing his art, but he hadn’t been so frustrated with a task since quitting ballet. In a sick way, he enjoyed the challenge and the feelings it incurred. It was reminiscent, stimulating, infuriating.

“You’re frustrated.” Otabek observed, humming thoughtfully. “How about we try something else?”

“No more hearts,” Yuri groaned, throwing his head back. He didn’t tie his hair back up. Damn the rules; he was getting a headache. “I’m so sick of them. I can pour hearts—I just can’t stack them like you can.”

“That’s absolutely fine. How boring would the world be if we all had the same talents?”

The kind, one-sided smile that accompanied Bek’s words made Yuri bite his lips against a grin. He looked at the floor, observing his friend’s vegan-illegal Doc Martens as they stepped closer to him. When his gaze blinked back up, he was pulled straight into a perfectly timed kiss. It was slow and sincere, affirming. It was reassurance in Yuri’s own love language: anything but words.

It was over too quickly.

“I meant I want to show you a new design,” Otabek said against his lips before slowly pulling away. His mouth, his breath tasted like the americano he’d been sipping on. A blush tinted his cheeks, but Yuri decided not to comment on it.

“You can’t be talking about—[ _rosettas_](https://imgur.com/Su3nlwa)?” Yuri’s voice broke as he immediately questioned Bek’s sanity. Michele had poured one into a latte for him once before training, and it looked at least ten times more complicated than a tulip.

“I sure do.” Otabek took over Yuri’s practice space. Once his milk was hot and there was an espresso shot in the round latte mug, he motioned with his chin for Yuri to come look over his shoulder. He spun the milk in the pitcher and narrated his movements thereafter. “Start high up to build the canvas, just like everything else. Get the pitcher close, create your base, then wiggle while you pull out. Lift up, pull through. Rosetta.”

[Bek’s rosetta](https://imgur.com/dD9RF08) was asymmetrical and the pull through at the end sank the heart at the top. Even Yuri’s untrained eyes could tell it wasn’t competition-worthy art.

“You aren’t very good at rosettas, Bek,” Yuri commented after trying for less than a second not to let the words come out.

Otabek elbowed him in the ribs, snorting a laugh. “Tulips come easier to me, so that’s what I do. Your turn.”

Just as Yuri was about to measure out his milk, the bell on the door rang to signal a customer coming in. He tried not to make a face at the intrusion, then he had to try not to smile when Otabek beat him to the register and waved a hand to signal for him to keep practicing. In that moment, he felt incredibly lucky to have someone around who knew what he needed before he asked for it.

“How are you?” Bek asked the customer, immediately after a cheerful and puzzlingly genuine _good afternoon_.

Yuri didn’t continue his practice, favoring to observe the person he’d allowed back into his life. Favoring to drink in the feeling of being supported by someone else—and letting them support him. He felt incredibly fortunate that Otabek had grown into someone so caring and complementary to him. Yuri figured his younger self was onto something; he should snatch Bek up and never let him go. But somehow, that felt like cutting a flower from its bush, locking a colorful bird in a dark cage. Yuri found that he still didn’t want to be Otabek’s partner, that he himself didn’t want to be caged, but the way they fit together in a mostly-platonic relationship—that was alright. It was welcomed. Needed. Appreciated.

“It’s been slow all day, actually,” he heard Otabek say, though he wasn’t paying much attention to the gratuitous exchanged pleasantries between Bek and the customer. He’d missed a large chunk of the conversation. Yuri was busy observing his trainer, probably with too much interest. The long top of Bek’s undercut was French braided back into a bun, which was a much more elaborate style than he usually bothered with. He was wearing a simple black V-neck tee and denim that hugged his muscled thighs and were cuffed just short of the ankle of his boots. The uniform waist apron clung to his slim hips, accenting the broadness of his shoulders. The way his shirt clung to his upper back when his body shook from laughter at something the customer said—that was exquisite. If he had recorded the motion, he would have made a gif and submitted it to an art gallery.

“Regular latte,” was what the customer said when they worked through the polite chit-chat enough to move on to the coffee order. That made Yuri’s ears perk because it meant the interaction was almost over.

“Okay,” Bek replied, pulling out his sharpie and tapping it to his chin. “What’s regular to you, my friend?”

“Um,” the customer hesitated. “Small and hot?”

“Is whole milk alright?”

“Yeah, regular milk.”

Otabek chuckled, then wrote the order on a twelve-ounce cup and went on to tender the transaction. It took a moment for Yuri to realize Bek kept glancing at him over his shoulder, surely noticing the way Yuri’s eyes were lingering on his body. He quickly floundered around for anything else to look at. Luckily, the cup sat on the counter between them, a purposeful invitation from Bek in a beautiful cursive font: _pour a rosetta for me, Yuri._

On brand, Yuri took it as a challenge. He’d already pulled a shot for practice; it had been abandoned in favor of staring at Otabek, though self-preservation begged Yuri to think of a different excuse for why he hadn’t used it. He started steaming the whole milk, hand wrapped securely around the pitcher to ensure the temperature would be perfect—the drink was going to go to a customer rather than down the drain, after all. His trainer had stepped into his space to watch, leaving him just enough elbow room to begin pouring what turned out to be a decent design.

“Hmm,” Otabek hummed, after the customer had left happy, mediocre latte art and all. “I guess you’re a rosetta girl. Let’s scrap tulips and focus on that.”

Yuri snorted, cleaning out the portafilter to ready another practice shot. “A rosetta girl?”

“Yeah,” Otabek said, pouring him a new pitcher of cold milk to steam. “There are tulip-inclined baristas and rosetta-inclined baristas. It’s an endearment—and a compliment. Rosetta girls are rare in this coffee shop. Michele’s the only one we’ve got.”

“What happened to your preference for gender-neutral terms?” Yuri teased. He was flirting, really, and he emphasized it with a slow glance over the bottom half of Bek’s face.

Otabek certainly caught on. He tilted his head to make himself shorter than Yuri and peeked at him through thick lashes. “I guess I’m a fucking hypocrite.”

Yuri smirked, toothy and sideways, with confidence. It was his selfie smile—well-practiced, well-liked. “You’ve got a dirty mouth today.”

“I’ve been hanging out with you too much.” Otabek’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Or maybe just enough.”

They had gravitated into one another’s space by the time the familiar bell rang and a gust of cool evening air spread through the café. Yuri quickly shifted back to working on his next practice latte even though his shot had sat for too long and lost its beautiful texture. He was intensely grateful for the stiffly waxed waist apron that helped hide his awkward semi. He let Otabek help that customer, too, silently frustrated that she was holding a laptop case and was therefore intending to stay. They would have to police their conversations, keep a respectful distance from one another.

“Can I just get, like, a regular coffee?” the customer asked, tucking a short strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled at Otabek and the too-long post on her lip piercing stuck out.

He smiled back, of course. “Sure. What does regular mean to you?”

Yuri had heard him ask that question several times since starting at Kimchi. He waited until Bek and the customer went through the motions (her ‘regular’ was: a brewed coffee in a mug with a pump of hazelnut and room for cream) until he inquired about the meaning behind the words.

“We all have a lens through which we see the world,” Bek said, tone hushed so as not to make the customer feel bad for the way she ordered her beverage. “I think it’s important to remind people to remove that lens and think of things objectively.”

“Oh—that’s interesting,” Yuri raised an eyebrow, knowing it looked fantastic since he’d shaped them the previous night. “Since you’re a judgy vegan and all.”

“Judgy?” Otabek looked genuinely taken aback. “I’m so far from that.”

Yuri huffed, pointing the empty portafilter accusingly at his friend. “You _snickered_ when the customer earlier called whole milk ‘regular milk’.”

“No, I didn’t _snicker_. I _chuckled_ because he said ‘regular’ again, after I asked him to clarify what ‘regular’ means. That’s, like, using a word in its own definition—goddamn it, Yuri.” Bek cut himself off, finally noticing the huge grin on Yuri’s face. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m always fucking with you, Altin.”

There was a moment where the space between them seemed to great, and it filled with a mutual unspoken sentiment. The two of them—their chemistry was never going to change, no matter how much time passed or how many arguments they had.

Yuri watched Otabek’s gaze drift from his face, to the length of his golden hair parted down the middle and curling at the ends near his small biceps, and further down. He allowed Otabek to look his form over, feeling both exposed and excited by the gesture. Yuri felt powerful letting someone see him as he was, knowing the other acknowledged it as something special. And, he figured, that’s what power was always meant to be; a dynamic shared with another person, on the same level of giving and taking something precious. A binary, more or less—though the argument that nothing about sentience could ever be two-sided remained.

When their eyes met again, their expressions were meaningful, understanding.

“Do you want to see a project I’m working on?” Bek asked him, tilting his head to the side and looking down in a rare moment of visible vulnerability. He was already scrolling through the music app on the store’s tablet, in search of the project he was referencing, and Yuri suspected it was just to busy his hands.

“Of course I do,” he said anyway, watching as his friend searched his own DJ name and pulled up a playlist. It was called: _untitled wip inspired by the unreasonable amount of people who think their coffee order is the gold standard_. Bek picked out a song that wasn’t labeled as explicit and added it to the music queue.

“This playlist consists entirely of my own mixes of my friend’s favorite songs,” Otabek explained. He bit his lip, probably a little nervous about showcasing his own work—maybe to the café, maybe to Yuri.

And Yuri understood that. Aside from The Piano Room, he hadn’t heard any of DJ Bek’s newer work. It just simply hadn’t been the time or place yet, though he’d wanted to ask about it. He waited for the song to play, listening to Otabek’s anecdote and trying to appear less eager than he felt.

“It’s going to be a final for a class I’m taking on the expectation of normality and how we’re affected by it. My goal is to show how everyone has a different point of view and how we can always improve on it by allowing input from an outside source. Even if improvement means we need to evolve. Grow up, educate ourselves, become better,” Otabek looked at his shoes, scuffing the soles into the concrete floor. “Well, _I_ think it’s better, anyway.”

Yuri wondered, in that moment, if Otabek’s usual cool confidence was always a façade, or if his music was just a particularly tender subject.

“I think that’s really powerful, Beka,” Yuri said in Russian so it sounded more sincere, just as Otabek’s music started playing throughout the café. He’d never heard the original song before, but the mix was pleasant and he allowed his hips to move to the beat while he attempted another rosetta pour. It came out nearly perfect, with only a hint of asymmetry but a perfect heart at the top of the design, and Yuri decided in that moment that Otabek’s song was surely the cause for his inspired art.

“The rosetta girl strikes again,” Yuri proclaimed, shifting positions so Bek could see his practice cup sitting on the counter.

“You should take a picture of that,” Otabek said. “It’s really good.”

“You think so?” Yuri asked, though he knew it was. “Your mix is really good, too. Obviously. I’ve never heard anything of yours that didn’t make me want to dance.”

The grateful smile on Otabek’s face told Yuri that, had the café been empty, he would have surely received another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hooks building is based off the language building at my school. They really need to do something about that place. It's dismal. And I know what I described is not how naming buildings works, but we're pretending it is. My headcanon for why they got to rename the building is that the person who donated the money for it turned out to be openly racist or something so they changed it when he died. OR it was heterosexual guilt. Y'all can decide.
> 
> Also how obvious is it that I'm obsessed with queer theory, specifically the idea of normality and how it enables skewed power dynamics in the form of capitalism/minority oppression/gender roles? If I could smoke a blunt with one queer theorist, it would probably be Michel Foucault.
> 
> ((HEY FRIENDS! I have this entire story written on my computer, but I also fell dick first into something and it was a summer class that is like way more work than the 3 hour credits it's worth. I will continue adding to this in August when I can give it my full attention. Love y'all!!))


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